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Sunday, 23 December 2012
Sunday Poem
Shark Chaser
For my father, shark repellent was power. He flew bombing runs over the pacific, confident in the lie that if he crashed, the canister would protect him.
For our foreman, power was salmon: endless aisles of tins stocked beneath the surface. When that promise went to sea the last time, the lights in the cannery flickered. Gathered on the floor, we expected each word, yet could not contain our astonishment as they splashed from his brackish mouth.
For us power was paycheques. We stood dazed in the parking lot, pink slips floundering in our palms. Our wives wouldn't expect us for hours. One of the guys decided to change his oil and we circled around, a gesture akin to friendship.
He tipped the can up, but nothing came. He shook it and banged it frantically, then tossed it aside and laughed three sharp busts which cut at the air like propellers blades— the laugh you make but once in your life.
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