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FISHING WITH PAPA
Papa shoveled a pile of
Dark rich soil from the
Cabbage patch at my feet
With hordes of wriggly earth-worms
Sticking up out of their
Homes where we plucked them
Squirming into an empty
Crisco can and
Headed out Papa leading the way
Into predawn darkness
Past an abandoned farmhouse
On our way to the creek
Deep in the woods
Quiet as pantry mice we
Slipped legless creepy crawlers
Onto our hooks and tossed
Our lines into the still waters
Dark like the night where my
Line came back empty
Papa's line yielded a crop of
Flapping
Slinky
Slippery
Frightening fish which I quickly
Carried back home past the
Abandoned farmhouse
Papa and the rising sun
Following far behind
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