The Bait Shop
The Bait Shop
One morning his mother started screaming.
Short, efficient shrieks, like someone wringing
The last drops out of a wet rag.
While they dealt with that,
The boy was sent off with an older cousin
Who offered to take him fishing.
They stopped at the bait shop on the east side,
Owned by two brothers, one blind, the other deaf.
At the jingle of the bell above the door,
The blind one turned his head and nudged the deaf one,
Who looked at them on behalf of them both.
The bait and beer were kept in the same fridge.
While his cousin checked the necks for cold,
The dirt for damp, the boy pretended to be
Interested in the things in the glass case —
Pocketknives, arrowheads, buffalo nickels,
Knowing he was being watched by one brother,
Listened to by the other.
They crept him out, the blind one
With his futile eyes, the deaf one
With his decorative ears.
There was a rumor they harvested
Worms from the graveyard, hence
The good luck folks had with their bait.
His cousin set the bait and beer on the counter.
“Let’s see some ID,” the blind one said, laughing.
The deaf one took the money.