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Gone Fishing

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I will never drink Dominick’s Cream Soda
Without remembering that camping trip.
“Gone Fishing” cassette playing in your rust flaked truck.
Catching bluegills at the stump
While mud daubers dive-bomb at our heads.
Fidgeting with the antenna
To find a clear view
For the game 6 of the 98 finals
All of us confined to the small porch of the camper
You with a beer, me with my cream soda.
Watching MJ shoot over Byron Russell to give the bulls the lead.
Laughing and cheering with your oldest of friends.
Reminiscing about the size of the albino catfish
And the bass that snatched your favorite spinner.
Myself listening in
Dreaming about how one day,
I will be the one
With the beer in my hand,
And my son with his cream soda.





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