My Morning Ride


On a  back road Saturday afternoon
with our cane poles in tow,
me and the boys
headed for the little fishing hole
about a mile from home
hoping to catch something
other than a spring cold
with our ample supply of grub worms.
We all started to wonder what kind of day
it was going to be
when we saw, at a distance,
that an older gentleman
had already staked out
last weekend’s honey hole.
As we moved closer,
the boys burst out in laughter
and jokingly asked their Grandpa
if he was running a trot line.
I grinned, asked if he knew we were coming,
and he admitted he was tipped off
by some woman he met
at my wedding sixteen years ago.
With any luck at all,
maybe his ice chest
will be full of cold drinks
instead of all of our catfish.

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