The wind spurred the waves’ crest,
Dockside, five, in a giant vest.
Lifted into the cold St. Clair,
Sure glad you were standing there.
In a row boat,
On a small, numbered lake.
We would float,
And we would wait.
Sometimes we would ply
Big waters, glass eyes.
The prop, eaten by kelp,
Had you screaming for help.
The perch runs on Breast Bay,
Walleye season in May.
Bucket sitting, paying a price:
Feet become one with the ice.
Dad, you were far from a perfect being,
But we all have facets, is the thing.
Thanks for the line, thanks for the hook.
Thank you, mostly, for the time you took.