The Fishing Hole

The Fishing Hole His scooped hands full of tadpoles, His tales rise and fall and roll, Down the hills of the ole fishing hole, Of my brother, and my sister, its troll. She ribbits, from having filled full of liver tards And roasting marshmallows by the ole fire campsite, She rolls down the hills of the ole fishing hole, Into my brother, his stockings, full of sod and coal. And I rise, tossing ham and bacon, The air full of a midnight raid, of my mother’s kitchen, As we rise, falling down the hills to the ole fishing hole, At the end of the camping trip, in the beat-up pick up truck --trailing one other down the dusty, sod-ridden road.