Walter says
his carbine is accurate
to over 300 yards but
I can't believe that old
tin scrapper is straight enough
To hit a turkey at thirty feet
though the road sign on HWY 95
That stretches through pumpkin
fields and cow pies says otherwise.
Ambrose's eyes
shiver when they meet mine
and I'm compelled to wave him
Back toward the canoes
and dust we made our trail
Of but he can't roll his tongue
or sing in Spanish or skip ever
Since he bumped his head falling
off the rooftop and I've stopped
Ambrose from
falling many times
since then but mostly into water
As we both have what our Paps
Walter calls trout fever so
We sweat it out in a boat
on a cool June morning
With ducks and dusk falling
as we bob beside the quay.
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