One summer family fishing trips began, with my father, my mother, me.
I liked the walks involved, often down some overgrown dirt road
That ended with a view of the river and a dock.
My parents had the usual gear of poles, wiggling things for bait,
Bad snacks, and beer, all things I would not touch.
I carried my own, being a couple of books, pen and paper, sunflower seeds,
And a thermos of hot tea.
They’d settle down to nosh, drink, and the usual trash talk, all given requirements for catching a fish,
While I’d find an appropriate tree, climb it, open a book and read.
Sometimes I’d ponder my own hypocrisy and wonder at its nature
Which was that I refused to kill worms to catch the fish,
Often protested the act of fishing itself on the spot ( to the point of monotony I was told),
But once home and presented with dinner would still eat the catch.
The time I tried to follow the logical end of my principles,
I found myself given an empty plate at every meal, for my mother had her own set of rules.
Stubbornness, even that of a small mulish child determined to be right, eventually succumbs to hunger.
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