The craggy-faced shrimp boat captain

keeps a pinch of chewing tobacco between

his lip and gum, wears faded blue overalls

and a ball cap. Early mornings, you'll

find him lumbering down the road towards

an old wooden pier, carrying a cooler filled

with ice, a fishing rod slung over his beefy

shoulder. Tackle swings like a pendulum

behind his back until he reaches his favorite

bench, close to the end. He pulls a bag

of shrimp from the cooler, baits his hooks

and casts his line as far as arthritis allows—

sits there until noon, either catching fish

or not; it's all the same to him. It's the sun

and wind and rain he's come for—the view

of shrimp boats headed out to sea, crews

tiny as toy soldiers. He can hear the cries

of hungry gulls, feel each vessel's pitch

and toss, though he is captain of nothing

now, save his own soul. And what his soul

wants is to keep his body close to water—

until the moon captures him in her net and lifts

it with cool, white hands into the starry sky.

 

From In the Palms of Angels (Press 53).

This poem first appeared in Shoal, and won First Prize Poetry in the

2010 Carteret Writers 19th Annual Writing Contest.

Used here with the author's permission.