Treasure Island

Jake Morrow


Home


Dirty hands and a coffee can full of worms,
waiting for a ride.
Two Cokes, a ham sandwich, a ziplock half full of potato chips,
enough for days.

Slow motion of a farm truck, forced to start in second because
first is too low, open wholes on the floor boards,
Am radio
silence between men.

Cold engines on hot summer afternoons
resting in the shade by the dock.
The first rainbows I remember pushed out around
the Lillypads.

We move by old tires and duck blinds,
motor past sunken Christmas trees and riprap,
old milk jug string lines with crawdad bait, half floating beer cans,
snagged bobbers with line curled up around them,
all the while the prop kicking up the mud.

Then there is open water.
The lillypads, the drowned bobbers,
past Christmases disappear into a wide channel.

Still silence between men as anchors are thrown,
lines cast, tackle surveyed.
The boat moves with the current as the anchors drag for their grip.

Sun on my arms and face, the silent approval of the men I am with,
my eyes watching the line steadily bowing into the water. As the wind
changes direction across the river, so do I.

Submitted: Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Edited: Tuesday, June 06, 2006

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  • Julia Klimenova (5/10/2006 1:57:00 AM)

    I love this descriptive poem, the end line hinting at a second layer of meaning. There is a Hemingway quality about it. Keep up the good work. Warmly, Julia (Report) Reply

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