Uncle John was a cap’m at the beach back when
the world was trying to begin: those old days
yes, sir: he could spot a school from the
shore: the rowboat would drop, and the men
would haul net out 150 yards into the breakers and
circle back, pop out of the boat and pulling
on each end of the arc drag in a furrow of
fish yea high and 100 feet long—spots,
mullet, croakers, crabs, whale shit, and stuff
like you never seen: the men, black, would
divvy up the catch (except the cap’m got more)
and sell what they could and as dusk came
fires along the beach would break out as the
men boiled fish in iron pots and roasted
sweet potatoes: talk about good: talk about
a hongry: all this is a strain in my makeup:
quite a strain: Lord, how I wish I had lived
then, for that! mincing words will not do for
the flap of a fish on the wet sand: something
you caught, something to sell: I went to
grammar school and plowed the fucking clods
instead, a serious person, little given to
human life: Uncle John was later sheriff for
sixteen years and owned a whole beach: he was
feeling good one day (white lightning) and
reached into the back seat of his Terraplane &
gave me twenty dollars, me, just twelve years
old and in love with nothing but paper pads &
PENCILS