the river's edge

not far from
here, just a mile
or two across
the road over
the bridge, is a
path that leads
down to the river
where we used to
go when school
let out for good
and fish. we
never ate the
fish we caught
those days, but
some were as long
as our short
skinny arms.
the river was in
bad shape, polluted
by the blue plains
sewage treatment
plant upstream, and
by oil and spilled
gasoline, and random
garbage thrown
off of boats. no one
seemed to care.
but we'd stand
in our our tennis shoes
soaked by the
swollen debris filled
water, and cast
our lines over
and over and over
again, with our
small lead weights
and blood worms
cut in threes,
pulling fish in,
cat fish,
perch and carp,
eels, horrible
black eels. and
we'd stay until
the sun started to
fall behind the
trees on the virginia
side, and we'd
make our way home,
hungry and thirsty,
but somehow less
alone.