by Greg Santos

The hummingbirds are fighting again
and the bug zapper has been left on all day.
It is that hot/humid/stickyflytape time of year.
Hummingbirds sound like a mix of
tiny bomber aircraft/squeaky toy.
My boy is off on a fishing trip
with his Grampy for the first time.
I have never been fishing but
I was once a fisherman for Halloween.
I even had a puffy red vest/facepaintstubble!
Tata, my maternal grandmother,
used to run barefoot over rocks and ocean
– a human skipping stone.
On the hunt to catch and bring home fish to cook.
Her curly hair boingaboinging as she leaped,
calling back to my grandfather, Nano,
to hurry and catch up!
It has been five years since they both died.
Alas, they never taught me how to fish
but I can fish for le mot juste, right?
Do you hear that –
the sound of hummingbirds tittering in the trees?
They’re laughing at us poets.
Hey, pal, my son can teach me
a thing or two about fishing/life.
There is still hope for us yet.

About the Author
Greg Santos is a poet, editor, and educator. He is the author of Ghost Face (DC Books, 2020) and other poetry collections. He is an adoptee of Cambodian, Portuguese, and Spanish heritage. He lives in Montreal with his family. Visit his author’s page at gregsantos.me and you can find him on Twitter at @moondoggyspad.