George, Martin. George.

I was four or five
and still stumbling around.
He took me fishing
once or twice a week
and I'd lift the catfish
out of our bucket
to show the city kids
at the south end
of Bear Mountain's Hessian Lake
never once being stung
by their poisonous whiskers.
A mantle oversaw me then.

Then one day we graduated
to the mighty Hudson
and for forty-five minutes
he played a giant fish
at West Point's North Dock.
At first he thought it was
a striped bass
but the way the pole bent
and the strength of the beast
led him to believe later on
that it was a six-foot sturgeon
source of precious caviar.
For almost an hour
that sunny Sunday afternoon
he fought against the monster
with both hands
as both eyes were glued
to his young son
playing near the edge
of the dock twenty feet away.
The story goes that he cut the line
intentionally since he couldn't bear
the thought of his child falling into
the river any longer
but I'm not sure if that's
how it happened.
The benefit of the doubt
comes heavily into play.

Behind the trash
can in my room
there's a twenty-three-year-old
photograph that's laid
there crumpled by a drunken rage
for three-quarters
of a year now
and though several folks
have offered to do it
for me I still can't
throw him out yet.
I suppose I owe him that.
He was a better father than his own
but still lost to the cycle.