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Every Summer Sunday
by James Shammas (Age: 44)
copyright 03-12-2005


Age Rating: 7 to 127

 
Every summer Sunday,
Clapping our hands and stomping our feet,
We waited for the 'fishman'
To walk down the street--

A tall wrinkled man in corduroy pants,
Pushing the day's catch
In a paper-lined cart
Squeaking under a brown burlap sack.

He would stop at the house
So we could jump up and down,
Peeking at six stinky bluefish
With sticky jelly eyes.

Then, one day, he never came back
With his smile or his prize.
With no name or number--
And with no one to call--

We sat and sighed-- on this hot summer Sunday--
Holding our hands and stopping our feet.
On the stoop we still waited,
For the 'fishman' to walk down the street.




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05-16-2005 Anthony Lane Stahlhut    

In the big citys venders walk the street and yell out what they are pedaling. The knife sharpener would walk the streets with his wheel and stop to sharpen scissors and knives. These times have faded and not many street venders do this anymore. Now they sell food and hats and things like that. Not much need to sharpen knives when you can buy a new one at the dollar store! I like the poem and the memories are flooding my mind because of it. Thanks, Anthony
03-13-2005 David Pekrul    

This is a good start to a great story. It seems like it is not finished. Perhaps this is a true reminice of your childhood and that is all there is, but it makes me wonder why the fisherman did not show up, just who he was,etc. Other than that it is well written, nice flow.

David Pekrul
Visitor Reads: 425
Total Reads: 438
Comments: 2

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