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
Copyright © Donald Meikle | Year Posted 2006
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