Carp Fishing In Michigan

Clutching The end of my Zebco rod and reel As the cast of tackle is flung Like a small knot of costume jewelry Skimming atop the caramel-colored Grand River Dragonfly rattling awry The vibration tingling in the palm of my hand As if I had cupped an angry bee Until the swivel hook and sinker Puckers The river’s muddy surface Splash Swallowed soft and thick On the river bottom a dozen kernels of corn Thread on hook Weighed down by an ounce of lead Waiting For a big greedy carp To come by and fight to the death. Tim and me we got that bait From a stolen can of corn that used to sit In Tim’s mom’s refrigerator. While we keep our eyes keen To the taps and shivers Of the delicate tips of our poles Balanced in the crux of V-shaped sticks Stuck in the dry embankment Delta 88s clack across Waverly Bridge And underneath teenagers dig the hard mud Hitting a joint while sharing a Mad magazine Their screeches and laughs rising and falling Like hooks scraping against cement. We stroke the knives slung in our socks Wary of them. Tim wonders to me what it means for the USA To have lost its first war. I don’t know. I say that my parents think that Watergate Was worse for us But either way they say Things will never be the same. Tim says his older brother slapped his face yesterday For parking his bicycle too close To his black and gold-trimmed Trans Am. We share a plot of revenge. We listen on a transistor to Ernie and Paul Broadcast a doubleheader from Tiger Stadium “And he stood there like the house by the side of the road…” We love the New York chef turned right fielder Rusty Staub. The experienced river fishermen To avoid snags and the false pull of current Must trust the placement of his bait. Sit and wait. The Grand River makes no sound. Has no reflection. These kinds of friendships last in a man’s mind For a lifetime.