Betsy Holleman Burke
A tumult of shad roils. The churning
waters of the Potomac under Chain
Bridge are slippery with rocks that catch him,
fill his waders with cold, bang his hip,
twist his ankle. Shivering, soaked he
presses on. He vies for space among
a rag-tag crowd, casts his line over
and over. He fills the cooler with fish.
The call comes from the boxy car phone:
Babe, put on the bacon. Grease is ready
for roe the minute he arrives, wet and
rank, in need of a shower, joyful. A man
who slips into the River on a
glorious spring afternoon to secure
an obscure dinner we cook together.