by John C. Stupp
All morning
I held my reel open
with a cork float
behind the boat
the line unraveling
in oyster beds and sandbars
disappearing in the mud
as herons stood
in their wet trousers
the sun came out later
croakers and spots ran by the jetty
as the ocean was in a hurry
and pushed everything into the marsh—
it was like driving an old car
in the mountains of North Carolina
the curvature of the earth
on the horizon ahead of us and trucks
and big rigs pushing everything from behind—
we could never go fast enough
the car all crazy floating on the tide
like a girl in a cotton dress with the windows down
[More poems by John C. Stupp]
