Fisherpoem

Published 9:00 am Wednesday, February 23, 2022

I slide into this crowded bar

like I’d ease a boat into a slip:

the river is crowded tonight.

Fisherpoets

ride these aisles like currents.

Tying up to booths

or dropping anchors on barstools,

they open journals like hatch covers:

unsure of how the catch compares.

How many brailers does the rest of the fleet have tonight?

How many pounds?

(Crap. Maybe I’ll wait to deliver until morning,

when no one else is watching.)

But morning comes and no one cares.

We drink beer, watch the show, and listen.

And damn, the stories fill the air like jumpers;

words weave to catch them like nets hung deep,

ears cock for the sound of a splash

eyes narrow, looking for hits.

Then here comes the next set, and a poet picks up the microphone,

like static over the radio, the bar chatter fades,

and in slow-motion the words lift us, riding on the back of a swell:

“The VHF just said a boat went down with all hands.”

“The sunrise lit the mountaintops the color of salmon.”

“…that halibut hook sunk deep into the side of his hand.”

“The lights of the fleet looked as if the very stars had fallen to the ocean surface.”

“Pea soup.”

“She went over when we weren’t lookin’…”

A slip of a boot on a wet deck

becomes a slip of the tongue,

and this place fills with salt water.

The speaker pauses, turns off the key

and walks away without a look.

In a moment all hell will break loose,

and we’ll relive it again in the telling,

but as the story lands on the dock

solid and hard,

we can sense the slightest change of the engine,

feel the gentlest breeze,

hear our own heart beat

in the distance,

in the waves.