musta been a million of ‘em writhing and wriggling layin’ atop the last damp hole in all a’ Remines Pond and the smell… open sewage mingled with boat launch at the bay peppered with wet dog and old rotting compost the sun should’ve cooked ‘em then ‘n there but instead they was just a ’floppin' t’was late summer and my youth driven memories while foggy and scattered still hold some sharp edges…. I set the pole and tackle box down Rolled up my pant legs Tossed my shoes and socks off to the side Proceeded to step into the swirling mire Near instantly the pain shot up from my foot And lit behind my left eye Screams of ****** ****** followed As the crimson mixed with the mud And fish **** ‘bout all I could think, “I am bound to get an infection” Turns out catfish have spikes…. Both side fins and the dorsal ……Wish ole pops woulda warned me on that one –
this piece should be read with a very slight hill-folk accent