June 3rd

Fishing Hole

slow walk
with Dad’s old tackle box,

his two best poles,
can of coffee-ground worms;

the two of us,
hoofing it down
the most supreme go-kart hill,

one long city block,
single-file shuffle
along the thin dirt

path, through the toothy
barricade of thorns, faint
red lines drawn

upon our thighs,
a sudden stumble-run
down the steep riverbank,

him first, then me,
splash-fast stop,
those few widening rings

the only sign
we’re here, tucked away
from the wild current,

four ankle rocks
in our little nook,
the cool zing splink

of each new cast,
not a single
care in the world.

(first published in chapbook Hurricane)