Transitory Shoreside
I want to remain a bit anonymous
and be in the cold weather on my own.
Along the edge of the Nordic coast,
I long for the private, quiet, and forced.
So, I wake up and skip the local news.
I am, after all, just visiting.
I sit on the canoe and recall
what my old man taught me.
While I cast the line, I nurse my thorn.
The open mouth. The blood on the hook.
Occasionally, I catch them in triple twos
and triple nines like my old man’s luck.
It’s the 32nd day. My long johns still get wet.
It gets tiresome. I wish I had packed more underwear.
The lacy kind with the cotton strip.
The washer is a rusted sink.
The same place I prepare my dinner
and clean my hands from the oils and guts.
I think I’m ready to leave.
On loan from my Sister, I wore his plaid coat
while I biked miles to book my ticket home.
There’s a small stain from the chowder I ate at the diner.
I’ll wait for her to point it out when she picks me up.
I’ll be glad to see her. We’ll both smirk a little.
