My father popped a beer,
erupted.
He scaled the flounder we caught
while its two eyes stared at me.
I remember the thrill of catching it,
my father knee deep, casting over the waves,
feeling the fight as he handed me the rod,
him holding tight with me.
In his powder blue polo and flowered speedo,
he aimed his Polaroid and took my picture,
red braids and that hideous fish.
It was 1974, the summer I tasted fresh fish and beer,
the summer Nixon resigned.
I sipped my father’s beer while he gutted the fish.
The whining voice of our president lulled me
while I gazed at the transistor radio,
expecting Nixon might jump out of the box.
My father wiped his hands as he finished.
I tipped the can once more and handed it to him,
everything ending in the last sip
of warm beer on that August afternoon.
I didn’t know we’d never come back to that place again.
