He don't fish no more

`


he don’t fish no more;
not after his wife died
on that cold november day
when the white caps slapped
the boat with a foamy malice
but the fishing was good

a long days work done
only to return, cold and wet,
to a dark house where death
had come to visit while he was out
trying to make a living for them

now his days are spent;
he sits alone on the porch
watching the boats come
and go, all his days the same
he don’t fish no more



`