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