I have an unquenchable thirst
for icy cold dry Rheingold beer
the way Father and I chilled it
in the river of Bash-Bish Falls
while waiting in our waders
for speckled trout to emerge
from shadows of their stony
hiding places.
I remember eating chicken-salami
on Jewish rye bread smothered
in deli-mustard and new pickles
that Mother never failed to prepare.
Fishing was Father’s passion—
an addiction that kept him serene.
He never could get enough of the sun—
the only thing that kept his psoriatic
patches at bay.
Now I’m only at peace
when I step off the world
and float on a body of water.