by Matthew McGovern

I in my reclaimed canoe
watch the man prepare to fish.
I’d be remiss not to mention
he looks and fidgets
like Elmer Fudd

Wearing a ruddy red sweat, bumbling
beside his Toyota Tundra, brimming
with every which implement
foremost among which
is his mechanical winch

He lowers the two-oared rowboat
saves himself excessive strain,
and he cannot contain
a wry smile aimed at me
seated low on a lichened stump

He returns to his trunk
to extract a tacklebox
of plexiglass, opaque
so I can see it’s complete
with line and flies
and pliers, weighted irons
hooks and lures, too.
He’s got a fat swagging walk
which is asking
how ‘bout you?

Loading it all smartly
in his personal craft
rounded like his belly
the worry and chagrin
of his Mrs., who tells him
go and row it off
up at Worden’s pond
as if it could be
rubbed away with ease
like with sandpaper
and some elbow grease

Then, at long last, the dinghy is packed
when he goes to make one last pass
in the Tundra’s cab,
he emerges, and in his grasp
a neat little motor
with which he putters off,
out onto the pond