Poetry & Prose

Any Given Sunday


I can’t help

but remember

the minnows,

fractions of fish,

slivers of slippery self,

fighting between

the slats in the dock.


They weren’t dead and dried,

like the crab legs reaching

from the aged wood

for some forgotten promise.


They were live, wriggling, forced

between the boards

by our fleshybrown fingers.


They flapped, hitting

each slab of  wood

with a gutsy staccato

“save me” beat.


Some faced the sea, bottoms up,

waving their silver flag tails

in the name of freedom.


Others looked at us

through the planks, bullets

of  pungent surrender.

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