On a cloudy Monday morning
Bearded fathers with children
Trekked to the docks
Carrying plastic buckets
And beat-up coolers
To store the catch.
As we boarded the rust-eaten boat
I, a nine-year-old city girl in glasses,
Saw young deserted men
And wondered if they
Even had a life on the shore.
We set sail, and I heard the captain
Speak in his vehement voice:
“Bait your hooks, hold your lines,”
And then I caught a glimpse of Hyannis
Dissolving in the distance
Like a homeland I’ve never visited.