Ryan Bird


Fourteen days ago we gave in.
Fourteen days ago we visited my fatherís boat.
It was tied up at Dutchmanís Cove Marina.
They call it, The Marina.
They call the boat, The Long, Wet Sucking Sound of a Life-Giving Supernova.
They call me, The Best Chance At Legitimate Grandchildren.
We did some fishing.
They call it, Angling.
The fish call it, Completely Hilarious.
My tummy rumbled and I stroked my goatee.
My father tongued at the saltwater in his mustache.
They call this, Family Resemblance.
The boat was cuddled by fish.
The fish threw themselves against the hull.
The fish call this, Facilitation.
We all got bites.
My father caught a secondhand sweater.
It will remain stretched.
It will remain soaked.
My stepmother caught a sarcastic bass.
It will mock her from its wall-mounting.
It will sing her awful songs.
She will listen to them all.
She will call it, Therapy.
My sister caught a tin of white albacore.
She will drain it.
She will add mayonnaise.
She will scour the boat in search of rye bread.
She will call it, Delicious.
My brother will roll a joint, then write a story.
He will call it, The Young Man and the Sea.
He will get peckish.
He will eat the story sometime before docking.
My wife will catch looks.
She will cast towards clouded swirls of guppy-bones.
She will always have a soft-spot for ghosts.
She will call them, Photo Albums.
I will stick a hook between my teeth.
I will leap from the deck.
I will grin like a pirate.
I will grab hold of the nearest fin.
I will return in a fortnight.
I will ride that scaly fucker
until they reel me
back in.

Ryan Bird is a rugged nine-to-fiver who lives his life according to horsepower-to-chick ratios. His drink: Jack, straight. His song: Thunder Road. But um, if you can keep a secret, his song is actually Every Day Is Like Sunday. For more embarrassing truths, visit: www.ryanbird/poetry

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