I was once the helper, call it gofer
If you wish, for my father on his
Fishing boat. No shuffling papers
But fetching tools and even using some
Of them, and given tasks a kid could do,
Which wasn’t very much at all.
There was a time and place for this.
We called the place “down the boat,”
And took some time in getting there,
A drive with two alternatives:
The antiseptic, new and speedy Jersey Turnpike
Or an old, congested, raffish road called U.S. 1 and 9.
He always let me vote and it was
Almost always 1 and 9
For me. Set amidst the romance
Of the ways and means of industry,
It gave us extra, idle,
Jealous time for sharing.
It was as if I had a traveling sidekick,
Off on our ways to anywhere.
