The Big Lake-

all night turning white rows under,
fry tilled back to black water.

Old men neck deep
in rubber pants &
red plaid shirts, waiting
for morning harvest.
Missing the opening
would be treason
say the old-timers,
worse if you
are an Islander.

Tonight they wait,
ancient gills damaged
by years of Marlboros
& Bushmills at the Onekema Bar
with coldblooded girls
from the ballparks
cruising low on stools
dreaming about the spawning
& the harvest & how everything
dies a little
on the way home.