Betrayal in the Surf

Utter despair, overwhelming
hopelessness
tricked again like Charlie

the dimple in the wet sand
a trick, Like Lucy
pretending to hold the football

walking through surf’s residue
sea foam masking evidence
of a clam

dig, dig fast
dig deep dropping to my knees
digging with my hands, in the cold wet sand

nothing,
no clam
the hole filling with sea-water

the dimple was a trick

Surf Fishing

Morris Albert was a rough guy
strong, with huge hands
scarred from years of hard work

he had an explosive temper
especially when he was drinking
which, was most of the time

during the war he went to prison
for stealing jeeps and truck engines
headed, on Liberty ships, to Europe

the family was afraid of him
and tip-toed around
careful what they said, or did

he used to come down to Seaside
and spend weekends
at the summer house with his wife, my aunt

he passed his time drinking, playing cards
and digging clams, or fishing
on the changing tides

I was eight
when he started taking me with him
to dig clams and fish the surf

The Fisherman

the kid went to the far side of the bridge avoiding the stares and jeers from the locals

put his pole up against the guard rail, and opened his tackle bag

he took a hook tied to a leader and a small weight, and tied this to the line from his reel.

He fished around and found an old sandy clam neck and impaled it on the hook

he drop his line into the heavy tide-current in the river and watched it drift downstream

the weight he put on wasn’t heavy enough.  he didn’t have another

he only had stuff he stole from his dad or found on the bridge

all of sudden, BAM wham, a fish,  the fish grabbed the clam neck and raced down stream