Jim Milks (2/7/1966 / Boston)
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The Fishing Trip (A poem)
The silence of an early morn shattered by the alarm clock’s horn
Leaping from the protection of a warm bed, these thoughts run through my head ‘grab the gear; pick up the line, time for the fishing trip grows near.’
In the darkness of this early morn we start this ride, passed quiet streets and darkened houses. On the deserted highways as the miles roll bye (by) , my smile grows wide. Inside the car, a young man’s heart swells with pride. In the darkness we head out, in the darkness there is no doubt today is the day we find out.
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