FRIDAY'S FISH
With yesterday's newspaper under my arm
And my tiny fist clutching a shilling,
I was headed east to Water street,
My heels dragging; very unwilling.
"It's not my turn!" I informed my mom
"To purchase a cod at the cove,"
"Don't argue!" she said, "just be on your way"
And she busied herself at the stove.
Now, I didn't mind the lengthy walk
Or the wind that kept up a wail,
My biggest concern was confronting a friend
And having them see the cod's tail.
For no matter how much newspaper I carried,
It always ran short at the tail,
So the slimy appendage would be in full view
To the eyes of female and male.
How often I'd wished we could purchase a cod
From the store, neatly wrapped up and tied,
But with eight mouths to feed and no money to spare,
This wasn't an occasion for pride.
Despite the sluggishness of my step,
Despite my cogitating,
I soon found myself turning into the cove
Where several fishermen were waiting.
The wooden tables were lined with cod,
Cod, with their glassy-eyed stares,
"Here's a fine one, miss" one fisherman called
As he tried to sell me his wares.
"This one's better!" another voice cried,
"At a special price just for you,"
I looked from one to the other and
I wasn't quite sure what to do.
"Oh, why did this have to happen?" I thought,
I felt like a villian, a cad,
So I placed the damp shilling into the hand
Of the man who looked most like my dad.
With the pages of newspaper spread on the ground,
I proceeded to wrap up my buy,
I covered the body, I covered the head,
But the slimy tail failed to comply.
I tried to buckle it, tried to bend it,
But all to no avail,
So I hoisted the fish up into my arms
And hoped no one would notice the tail.
The walk back home was speedy,
Though the cod seemed to weigh a ton,
Mom was pleased with my purchase, saying,
"You picked out a nice fresh one!"
At supper that night as I sat down to eat
The crispy browned piece on my plate,
The events of the day were far from my mind
As I savored each bite that I ate.
In the years since then I've bought fish at the store,
Fried it up, crisp and brown on the stove,
Yet somehow I just can't recapture the taste
Of the ones I had bought at the cove.
Eileen Power
copyright 1990