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They arrived in rusted cars and ancient trucks
slugged blue collar champagne from coffee mugs  
playing one eyed poker with calloused hands
laughing like jackals -cussing like burning crabs.

They solved all of the world's problems 
through unfiltered thoughts and whisky logic 
smoking swisher sweets while nodding heads
agreeing that a godless world is better off dead. 

The next morning, the sky was hungover
they tallied tackle and fired up grandad's motor.
That night, they gazed upon Gods waning embers
beholding lost lunkers and the ghosts of old friends. 

Sunday morning, they slowly packed up paradise
hand me down tackle and one-eyed smiles.
An angel in the shallows waved them goodbye
down a dirt road they drifted away like misty skies.


The following year there'd be one less caste
in a sacred place they lay an old fisherman's hat.

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