The giant tuna come out in late July,

calling schools of fishermen to my greasy bar.

They whisper rumors to each other

under the sounds of snapping fat and dripping coffee,

how much Bob got for his seven hundred pounder.

where Hank is sure he’ll find the next big catch.

They want eggs, sausage, hash browns, toast--

food hardy, bearded men eat before work.

I cut, stir, flip, fry, sweating, filling the smoking grill.

Five double omelets spread down the middle,

three Aunt Jemima pancakes cook on one side,

two rows of nine slices of oozy bacon crackle on the other.

I am always one second from charred disaster as I

load plates and toss them to the mouths behind me.

You can cook anything on a good grill--

Brian, the dock boy swears he once made pasta

on this very one, and baked Alaska for desert.

I believe half of anything marina men tell me.

They love fooling me with big grill stories, big fish stories-

like the giant tuna. A hundred pounds, at most,

I say, ringing up the flannel-clad hunters,

You won’t fool me, again, I tease.

They swig their coffee dregs, pull

crinkled dollars from their pockets, and

promise to bring back an eight-hundred pounder.

You’ll see, they say. Yeah, right I say.

At dusk, they unload the biggest catch of the season,

nine hundred and sixty three pounds.

I watch them weigh it while I scrub the grill silver,

and wonder what other stories they told me were true.