A RECOLLECTION
My father taught me how to fish
Casting his lure to the pickerel weeds
Where slender shadows would be seen
That could make a savory breakfast dish
When fried well coated with cornmeal.
At other times we trolled for bass
While I rowed and he trailed his line
Baited to make a small mouth decide
It could not let that target pass,
A treat too tempting to decline.
I learned to hold the quarry close,
Slide my hand gently down the fins,
Wait for the tail to cease to swing,
Then softly work the barbed hook loose
So that it could be baited again.
At night the horn pout were our choice
With bulbous heads and smooth black coats
And sweet pink flesh we’d come to know.
Their tentacles we tried to avoid.
Our lantern brought them to our boat.
My father and I were often at odds.
I wasn’t the boy scout he might have preferred.
I did not always heed his words.
But I can cherish this memory now
Of me at the oars and him in the stern.
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