Props tangled in the depth,
dining on the wharf, a meal of beer
and smokes, the boat beached,
tethered dreams, raw rope,
swivels in a row, bobbers
drifting in slowly, wanting a
recast, a few low-tide buoys
loiter, swinging wayward, lawless,
a wee water fowl amid
sinewy, wary weeds,
a stiff wind chops the water
and fetches new walleye.
The magical dusk hour lifts
lazy legs from the boards to
start the fire.
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