Because We Could

Gotcha some bullheads, I see.  Hap

pulled us into dock, bullheads carpeted

our boat's floor, fins surrounded our feet.

When they're biting, nothin's

more fun than pulling 'em in.. 

Ready to pull anchor, the first strikes

stunned us.  Our reels spun and rods

tipped as catfish dipped for the deep.

My dad's excitement nearly swallowed

the stump of his partly chewed cigar.

Discarding my Hemingway novel,

I leaned into grace under pressure

to land fish after defenseless fish.

Goose Martin and I hit a strike one night

and filled a garbage can while it lasted.

The wide yellow heads adorned with timeless

barbels rested in the alien world of our sport

while knowing eyes mocked our amusement.

Three pounds of infinitely formed flesh

tempted by minnow disguised hooks.

Underwater boxcars, they lack the stylish

design of the sleek northerns and walleyes,

elusive muskies, the flare of the bluegills.

Scavengers, bottom feeders, controllers

of the night, their defensive fins disabled.

What shall we do with these?  We have

a couple of nice walleye for our supper,

and we're leaving in the morning.

I'll smoke the suckers. Hap eyed the catch

with relish, mixing mental barbecue sauce.

The last fish gasped for air as my departing

sneaker nudged his dream,  visioned minnows

swam just beyond his open mouth.