By John Grey

They fish the dirty river.

I don’t know if they catch anything

or whether they eat the toxic fish

if one happens to bite down on their hook.

I see them casting their lines into the murk,

where factory slop meets snow melt 

on that slow crawl to the bay.

The smell doesn’t bother them.

Nor do the broken bottles, used needles,

that litter the bank.

A nearby sign warns “No fishing.”

But then again, every sign 

says “no” to something.

Copyright© 2021 by John Grey

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