and the night before the trip
they pack their lines their boots and
squirming worms in rusty tins
and at last the sandman comes
he wears his fishing hat with
reels and rods suspended in both hands
and little boys drift off to sleep
dreaming of the lakes the birds and fish
bologna sandwiches and potato chips
and with bated breath they wait to hear
the tallest tales from him
as he whispers to the hooks and drinks his beer
and like a grandpa he looks at you
an extension of what he holds too dear
his little boy lost beyond the trees
and little boys curl tiny velvet finger tips
accidentally squishing life from crickets
on the docket of super hero honor
and grandpa looks to his little boy
with wonder through lived in eyes
his hand forced to the sentencing
and then the time comes
when all the little boys
who love fishing with grandpa
cast their lines for better or worst times
then when the excitement dies
look grandpa in the eyes
and he sends his good bye
to his little boy in the lake
to fate and life and love and hate
as he has now made a man
born a little boy
to face tribulation and dismay
and at the end of each day
knows that someday
that costume of a man
will shed itself
among the trees that nestle
the lake where the grandpas rest
in wait of all the little boys
returning to cast their final line
weighted by their grandpa’s love
REST IN PEACE
PAUL ARANDA JR.
