The Kishwaukee River was polluted
When he wandered its mud banks as a boy.
A gray iron foundry’s whistle tooted.
An ice cream company poured colored waste
On Thursdays to the carp and suckers’ joy,
Though peppermint didn’t seem to their taste.
In Japan they breed ornamental koi,
But here carp are held a pesty junk fish
And though his Dad smoked them — a tasteless dish.
He fished them because an eight pounder fought
With fury, gasping on the grass when caught.
He dragged in snapping turtles with stout line,
Chunks of bass. Dad axed their necks and made fine
Soup — until his fingers went from ten to nine.
