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.