On a cloudy Monday morningBearded fathers with childrenTrekked to the docksCarrying plastic bucketsAnd beat-up coolersTo store the catch.

As we boarded the rust-eaten boatI, a nine-year-old city girl in glasses,Saw young deserted menChopping squid,And wondered if theyEven had a life on the shore.

We set sail, and I heard the captainSpeak in his vehement voice:“Bait your hooks, hold your lines,”And then I caught a glimpse of HyannisDissolving in the distanceLike a homeland I’ve never visited.