How long do I have to wait before I start living
the life I want? Pauline says she asked herself
in midtown, chucked it all and moved to Vermont.
Or one of those. New Jersey? I get them all confused. Chuck
takes me to the Hoosac Tunnel, once our longest, running under
the Berkshires. Chuck says hundreds died in its construction.
In my lack of imagination I see coal miners, the tunnel interior
fighting back, but when I look it up it’s all explosions, black
powder to nitro, pod of puddingstone demoralized rock
the men all hated to dig: a shovelful of eels.
Walking toward the tunnel an early autumn afternoon
while the others get into their waders, rig up their gear, tie
on their flies, we look at each other wide-eyed when we feel
a basement chill, so sudden you can walk in and out of it,
shadow spilling into light. The train goes by on a tall
bridge over kayakers, men in poke boats, all of them doing
exactly what they want. We joke about Rachel’s
fishing show, what her fishing show would be. Specials
on falling, spelling “Hoosac,” 25 silent minutes to tie
a single knot. I love fishing, don’t care what I catch.
I don’t need the gear and hassle, love wearing waders in the river,
cool pressure of the current on my legs. I love finding
a muddy bank to lean on, a tufted hillock, a kind of tuffet just
for me. Or a big rock parting the water, probably blasted
from the tunnel, where I can perch and watch my best friends fish
and stumble, lurch into each other, laugh in the deepening light
on my face, dry empty hands, sun angling out of William Blake.
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