Boots MacDuff, a riverman
through and true, knew
deep pools where walleye lie,
best backwaters hiding bluegill.
He was Boots, because in a family
with a passel of kids, whoever
got up first got to wear the boots,
and he made sure it was him.
As an old-timer, he wore boots year-round,
told a naïve, city-bred woman
he wore ‘em ‘cause rattlers
bounced off when they struck.
Happy hour, he’d stomp into one of
the three Sunville bars for coffee,
buy drinks for friends, and
regale them with angling tales.
The thirsty and thankful devoured
river rat stories and bet on his
night-before mayfly hatch predictions
‘cause it meant lousy fishing,
Next morning, white-sided river houses
were covered with 24-hour, mouthless pests,
bridges so stacked up, they had to plow ‘em,
pikes not biting, completely glutted.
Everybody would say,
“That Boots.
He always knows.
He always wins.”
