Driving my flatbed
over Nebraska back roads
where marsh land opens up
like an ironed seam.
Driving to Merton’s fishing hole
beyond the aster and bottle-brush
where we once spent afternoons
reeling in trout.
I can still see your calloused hands
lines angled deep, wide as the nets
we swooped
to capture shoes, cartons,
the occasional fish.
Our tattered net as holey
as your Royals baseball cap
fifty years it spent
backwards on your head.
I was a fan
of everything
the sturgeon, crappies, pike
meal worms we speared
on treble hooks
long wait for a bob,
the drive back down
to Wally’s A and P
when enough was enough.
Sitting on the lean-to-porch
cracking an RC cola
watching the flatbeds rattle
across the rutted roads.
