Bluefish

// Tom McDade

The housepainter might have picked
the two foot bluefish from a dumpster for all
anyone knows but no flies or vermin
tail him in so he’s welcome.
An old man on furlough
from the state institutions
kisses it full on the mouth
before retreating to a corner
to blow “Red River Valley”
on his harmonica.
The housepainter has a bottle of wine
vinegar he pours into a mug.
Carving up the catch
he invites everyone
to dip and dine with him.
A couple drunk enough do.
Soon others drift over as if they’d heard
it was born and raised in Christ’s own hatchery.
The old man abruptly ends his gig
to interfere with pool hustlers
honing their nine-ball skills.
He pushes their sticks,
upsets their racks.
Asked to leave before he gets hurt
he says he’s crazy and has papers
to prove it.
Then sitting down
he drops his face into his hands
and just breaks out sobbing.
The bartender plays loud jukebox
to drown the guy’s pain.
There’s not much more left of the fish
than the mouth and it’s larger
than any cloud in the sky.
The sun is strong, humidity’s low.
Somewhere a barefoot man or woman sprinting
from a shore to a beach house is shouting,
The bluefish are running,
the bluefish are running.