Bobber
On the Columbia River near Vantage.
Washington, we fished for whitefish
in the winter months: my dad, Swede-
Mr. Lindgren – and me. They used belly-reels,
pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown
flies baited with maggots.
They wanted distance and went clear out there
to the edge of the riffle.
I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole.
My dad kept his maggots alive and warm
under his lower lip. Mr Lindgren didn’t drink.
I liked him better than my dad for a time.
He let me steer his car, teased me about my name “Junior,” and said
one day I’d grow into a fine man, remember
all this, and fish with my own son.
But my dad was right. I mean
he kept silent and looked into the river,
worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.