Bobber

 On the Columbia River near Vantage, 
Washington, we fished for whitefish 
in the winter months; my dad, Swede- 
Mr.
 Lindgren-and me.
 They used belly-reels, 
pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown 
flies baited with maggots.
 
They wanted distance and went clear out there 
to the edge of the riffle.
 
I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole.
 

My dad kept his maggots alive and warm 
under his lower lip.
 Mr.
 Lindgren didn't drink.
 
I liked him better than my dad for a time.
 
He lets me steer his car, teased me 
about my name "Junior," and said 
one day I'd grow into a fine man, remember 
all this, and fish with my own son.
 
But my dad was right.
 I mean 
he kept silent and looked into the river, 
worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.

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