Fillin In

A tear bubbled and bled To run warm then cold in the keening wind Hands too busily working in stinking bait gloves Were of no use as cheeks reddened in frozen feeling The pitching and yaw of the hauled in boat added to the stress The traps had to be emptied and filled And the sea was not cooperating No words were said None were needed His eyes said it all No matter that he’d run up on the weather side God forbid he’d err at all And this was a minor squall Finally the traps were done and run out At least he did that into the weather Or as close as he could They had to run North to South No matter where they were Huddled in out of the wind Hands free to wipe the streaming nostrils On wet cold jeans and suck down The thermos of hot buttered rum She wondered if anyone ever thought Of where lobster came from