Boathouse at Otto’s Landing at End of Season
by Michael Escoubas

In purple twilight Otto’s lamp gives off
a ghostly glow. The wooden floor groans under
Otto’s shoes. His hound, Git Down, lies near,
paws on nose, sad at season’s end.

All the fishermen have gone home.
No demand for live minnows and tackle.
Otto’s old ’51 pickup sulks near the fence,
rusting out in tall grasses gone to seed.

And yet, summer’s laughter returns,
amid memories of children swiping
chocolates from Otto’s special stash.
The swagger of angler’s with strings

of bass and blue gill and stories told
as men lashed rented boats to Otto’s pier.
This strength, this lusty, rough-shouldered
life, not gone, merely suspended for a time.



 


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