The father sanded the gunwales,the boy coiled the lines.
And I admired them there, each to his task
in the quiet of the long familiar.
To neither did I say how much
I loved them, nor express the extent of my fear.
Their bodies are delicate glass boxes
at which the world begins to fling its stones.
we reel
in crappie after crappie,
laughing at their name
and the ease at which
they are hooked
Was my father’s leftover stuff the key to who he really was?
The next morning I rode my bicycle to Wolf Corner where coyotes and dogs were
Hung on a wooden rack to discourage coyotes
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