Carl brought the boat and then he took action
Until all line was back but a fraction
With the boat on shore and the fish upstream
Carl said, “You’ve got him now, time to get mean!”
I was in control and wore that fish out
Got him into Carl’s net and then let out a shout
“I got that Bugger, just look at his size!”
Carl said, “Punch your card “now”, that would be wise”
“I’ll do that in a while, but not just yet”
“I need a break and smoke a cigarette”
By now, people were there, where we landed
And one of them spoke to me, so candid
“Give your punch card to me, I need to see”
“Is it all legit as it seems to be?”
It’s the Game Warden, who wanted my card
Got it out quickly and he punched it hard
Gosh, I so was glad I took Carl’s advise
Without that license things would not be nice
The fish was a native, sixteen and a half pounds
That made the sports news around Puget Sound
To be able to fish, I’d called in sick
Boss saw my picture; knew it was a trick
Called me to his office; what could I say?
I’m sorry Boss, but I just had to stay!
tempered steelheads migrating through the
shallows, their metallic scales lubricated
with penzoil two stroke motor oil.
moving over sand and rocks
some gray, some brown,
some smooth, some jagged and torn.
with alloys glistening in the summer heat
they brush up against the rivers stones to break
off the fishermens disappointment.
all those scarred gums whose fishhooked
lines caused thier lead bellies to rust.
in the muddy waters they stir,
drink to much whiskey and sink to the
river bars sandy bottom.
their rigid frames drifting through the sediment,
with heads lowered swaying
slowly like submariner zeppelins, trying to
navigate against the turbulent waters.
now these mechanical nomadic sailors keep for
themselves a tin compass in the sky filled with
memories of home.
but still they are mellow preachers
rolling and tumbling in their hardened
elements trying to find their way.
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