Big Keith and Big Tom

“I been ‘ere forty years, I reckon,”
says Big Keith the fattening fisherman as
he flicks his hook and whore-dangle out
over the river. A plop and sigh as it sinks into

grey-green silk. “Never caught him yet,
never will, I reckon.” Big Keith sighs thinking
about Big Tom, the monster Pike, so
fat the river mud folds over him; his rare

movement changes the current. For forty years
now, casting out and hoping. Sundays spent
trying to catch Big Tom, eating sandwiches,
reading the paper, dreaming of the day.

Any weather: wind, rail, hailstones so heavy
they shoot holes in his fishing tent and scatter
the maggots. All for a chance to catch the river Moby,
slap him down on the grass, marvel at his jaws.

“Reckon the Misses don’t mind. Good
to get me out of the house,” says Big Keith.
His line tugs. The rod wobbles. “Jesus bloody
Mary!” Big Keith kicks over his can, the ale

trickling thick and frothy through the grass,
dripping off the riverbank and into the water,
all the way down to where Big Tom sits sniggering
at the sight of Big Keith’s line snagged on a trolley.