from the cove, rowing back
alone, the mid-morning sun drying
the pickerel strewn under the seats
of his flat bottomed boat
finishing it off, trolling almost
to the tie-tree, adrift now
reeling in, he spits out the last inch
of his cigarette: get any I ask
thirty-three summers ago, those black
pickerel jaws stiffening in the hard gator
slouch. naryone he grins
throwing them one by one at my feet
clambering up the bank to the fish
table: edging his knife beneath
the stumplimp necks, thumbing down the blade
stripping the skins like making tape
Donald Junkins
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