FINAL REPORT: I Am Feeling Crabby...

The following little narrative is in response to those who requested a final report on my previously posted article, "Up For Crabs!" 

I.

A week or two or three ago I wrote how my wife and me

took a day off in the middle of the week for the sake of our sanity.

A few of my friends gathered to see what I had written about.

Some said to write and let them know how that day turned out.

One fine fellow thought our quest “romantic” in the non-sentimental sense,

and even insisted I write a poem to tell of the days events.

Combining my assignment with informing my friends as they had requested

I hereby submit this poem to them and anyone who is interested.

II.

My wife and I, as part of our plan, ruled out any rushing that day.

So, we slept late and left the dawn on its own to rise and shine and play.

As we prepared to begin our quest, the clouds danced over the sun.

We jumped in my truck and headed out in search of a big truck-load of fun.

We drove onto a a ferry boat in the Westbank town of Belle Chasse.

On it we crossed America's Big Muddy River at a steady and leisurely pace.

With only vague directions we did what explorers have always done.

We followed our noses, scratched our heads and tested the wind with our thumbs.

III.

There was no question that we would go on as our final landmark we passed

Soon we traveled the lone stretch of ground in an ocean of swaying marsh grass.

We stopped for a moment and pondered our next move at intersecting roads

Hopedale was a left, I don't recall right, and straight went to Delacroix.

We choose left, and traveled a spell before sighting what was once Hopedale.

A scant few shrimp boats had returned since Katrina had churned up her hell.

Slowly we drove through the unburied remains of houses, boats, and piers.

Yet, behind it all, the marsh grass grew tall, as it has for innumerable years.

IV.

We crossed a rusted draw-bridge and soon found a likely spot

to cease our travels and attempt to catch something for the boiling pot.

The method we used was very low tech and involved simple lengths of twine.

To one end of each we tied a chicken leg on which our prey could dine.

Within one minute of tossing the first chicken-leg out into the deep

my wife and I watched as the line slowly moved to the left with a steady creep.

For the rest of the day we used four chicken-leg lines and didn't do too shabby.

In fact, by the time we arrived back home all things were pretty crabby.