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Mudcats from Little Hole
Steve Meador


On our way to Little Hole
we paraded with bamboo poles
and bean cans full of fat worms,
snatched at night from the soft loam
under the lilac bushes.

The return march marked by dried
fish slime that curled from our hands,
like shavings from a carpenter's plane,
as we swung milky-eyed trophies
back and forth.

It wasn't the sport that hooked me,
nor the meager meat on bendable bones.
It was the giggles and screams,
the general panic among the girls
as we tried to swish catfish
whiskers across their skinny legs.

This poem first appeared in The Orange Room Review (February 2008).
Used here with the author's permission.


Steve Meador is the author of three poetry collections and his work appears regularly in print and online journals. When he's not scribbling words or taking photographs, you can find him in Florida, working as a real estate broker. 



Post New Comment:
Brings back wonderful memories of bamboo poles, worms and the thrill when a fish took the bait. I prided myself on baiting my own hook...Couldn't do that now.
Posted 03/28/2015 09:02 AM
Gary Busha:
A fine poem.
Posted 03/28/2015 05:59 AM

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