Alec Bobedash, the great Nagurski’s
blocking guard, stands at the stern
bent to raise the outboard motor
over the sandy bottom ferns.
The channel widens, bottom falls
away. In northern morning haze
the slow prow slides rising
onto Shishebogema, lake of many bays.
Then the long run over the deep
center, the outboard motor cut,
the shore pines faint through the mist,
Bobedash testing the anchor knot.
Unwatching he watches the shore
for the crooked finger of the broken dock,
pointing, as he then points,
toward the great blue heron on the rock.
The party of fishermen stirs in the cold.
Bobedash, without regret or wish
or thought of Nagurski, grunts
at the endless mystery of the fish.
They think I guide they think
I know they think I think.
The rope plays in his old hand.
He watches the anchor drink.
The Great Nagurski’s Blocking Guard
