Afternoon on the Little Carroll River

He said, in a gruff and raspy voice that began in his chest
and seemed to exhaust through his whiskers; “I remember
them kids like it was just about yesterday…” He trailed off
into green memory land, puffing softly on whatever brand
of store-bought stuff he’d managed to come up with.

“They was all good kids…they’d come down to the river
in twos and threes dressed in ragged cut offs; skinny boys
without shirts and pretty little girls…” His eyes glazed over
and closed for a brief second of reflection. “Funny, no one
scared the fish off, so what did I care if they liked to dive.”

“Oh yeah, it’s dangerous…they could get hurt; but I ain’t
their mummy or daddy, just an old fisherman chasin’ trout.
Connie used to sit under the tree over there watching Zack
jack-knife like butter, over and over again until he’d tire
of the girls’ oooh’s and ahhh’s and then he’d disappear…”

“and so would the prettiest girl, slipping off to catch up
with him. I could almost feel Connie’s eyes following Zack
and I always wondered what he was thinking.” He coughed
and spat towards a fat clump of dandelion, blowing smoke
and fluff in all directions on the stillness of hot summer air.

“Once...” he paused to scratch a match on his thumbnail;
took a long, satisfying drag that made his weary eyes water
and shook his head. “...when they were gone, that quiet kid
Connie climbed up there, stood where his older brother had
and proceeded to pull off the best jack-knife I ever seen.”

this is an excellent example of how to write short narrative poetry, Mary Ann. wonderfully penned, as usual.

Tee-hee, I almost always screw up the punctuation on these...
but wouldn't it be fun to be out there on such a lovely day.


I'm surprised you're indoors... and me, too!

Thank you, Chris - Take care, Mary Ann