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
