Here you will find the Poem Bobber of poet Raymond Clevie Carver
On the Columbia River near Vantage, Washington, we fished for whitefish in the winter months; my dad, Swede- Mr. Lindgren-and me. They used belly-reels, pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown flies baited with maggots. They wanted distance and went clear out there to the edge of the riffle. I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole. My dad kept his maggots alive and warm under his lower lip. Mr. Lindgren didn't drink. I liked him better than my dad for a time. He lets me steer his car, teased me about my name 'Junior,' and said one day I'd grow into a fine man, remember all this, and fish with my own son. But my dad was right. I mean he kept silent and looked into the river, worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.
