Episode
They Built the Wall Themselves by M. A. Dubbs | Handpicked Wednesday
- Podcast
- One Poem Only
- Published
- May 6, 2026
- Duration seconds
- 177
- Processing state
not_requested
Actions
POST https://stenobird.com/v1/public/podcasts/one-poem-only-7376622/episodes/they-built-the-wall-themselves-by-m-a-dubbs-handpicked-wednesday/transcription-requests
Idempotently request low-priority transcript generation for this episode.GET https://stenobird.com/podcast/one-poem-only-7376622/they-built-the-wall-themselves-by-m-a-dubbs-handpicked-wednesday.md
Read the agent-friendly Markdown representation of this episode resource.
Summary
Wednesdays on One Poem Only are a double feature: one poem here on the podcast, and one more by the same poet shared on Instagram. They Built the Wall Themselves M. A. Dubbs On any given weekday on the east boardwalk of Port Washington, you’ll find fishermen of leisure. Long white beards, shirtless with an all over tan, crepey skin a canvas of tattoos; a visual storyboard of his trials. If you’d ask, you’d learn about the steady hands that inked him as a kid drafted to ‘Nam. He won’t say much about the thick bordered ones he did when he got back. Just shake his beard and tell you “mistakes.” Ashes from his cigarette will fall on familiar burn marks as his lips tremble. The lake clears the mind, dampening the sound of everything. Even the water crashes silently on the storm breaker, so it’s always still. A haze, not a fog, rests north of here. Resting on the horizon like an acoustic panel. It’s the silence that he seeks but he’ll bring six fishing rods anyways. Strap them up in a row along the railing, all cast close, lines just four feet apart. If you’d ask, he’d say he’s trying to better his odds. Ask if he’s caught anything so far and he’d shrug, tell you nothing good yet but he wants a big fish so he brought the big rods. But mostly, he’s quiet. He rests on a bench or sits on his hams and squints outwards. Solemn face, as couples hold hands and stroll by, as a mom pushes her child in a stroller, as a group of teen boys pause. They long to learn and touch fishing line, have an old hand guide their fingers through pretty little lures, each feathered and glittered with care. They long for tough stories that were untold until they lent an ear. There’s a pause for connection but it passes too quick. The boys don’t know much yet but they’ll carry this anger home and it wi…