he called out,
his knotted arm, knitted and purled,
pumping a bucket the size of a table.

I heard his low voice
as I walked by him,
say to his boy holding the rods
that no one’s biting these days
no one’s calling.

I imagined him, then,
standing on that barnacle-crusted pier,
two rods in hand
fishing for people.
Scooping up chums
who couldn’t tell bite from bait
and filling his bucket with the lot.

Fresh People with Aloha!
he’d call out,
his knotted arm pumping
a bucket the size of a boxcar,
his boy standing by, holding the rods.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: