Fishing from the Bridge

Away from the house,
fast and far,
fishing pole resting on Huffy handlebars,
down the prom to 12th avenue

each block further away from angry voices,
turning right and that much
closer to the bridge
that crossed the Necanicum

closer to snagging a bullhead
to cut up for bait,
to use to catch a sea-run cutthroat
salt water trout

if the tide was coming in

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