A Fishing Poem

Alaskan Fishing Stories

Reading fishing stories

for the anthology I’m editing

is dancing with the past.

I whip around my office in power scows

and skiffs, wind in my hair and beard,

full of testosterone, not a fear to consider.
Packed with confidence built by muscle

and ignorance, I pick fish like a madman,

go out on deck in fierce seas, drink too much,

do too many drugs again, and fall exhausted

into my bunk, to sleep deep and dreamless.

No need to dream tonight. I have been dancing
at the bar where fishermen go between periods,

and we closed the place down. I shot pool like I was on TV,

and we fired potato-guns at beer cans out back

after snorting a line we drew out on a Devil’s Club leaf.

My crew and I smelled like fish, so we showered in our clothes

in the Pioneer Hotel in Homer, and soaking wet

took a cab back to the boat to change.

I came home and you weren’t there. The house was dark,

your car wasn’t in the drive, and to save my life,

I had to figure out why.