This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order. 

Fish Story

Aug 7 2006

I watch two large men

in a small wooden boat

rocking perilously low

fishing for sport.

One wears camouflage.

The other, a ball-cap

glittering with trophies and lures;

like piercings, or body art

for utilitarians.

The whole contraption

looks top-heavy and cramped.

I can just imagine the smell

of fish-slime and stale beer

salami sandwiches.

See the grey bilge

sloshing with butts

and 2 water-logged life jackets.

The surface of the lake is a smooth black tablet

impervious to light

concealing its inky depths.

Then a cast, like a “hail Mary” pass

shatters its calm;

wriggling doodads, and sparkly plastic

to tempt the unblinking eyes

of its cold inhabitants.

It feels like trespass;

2 lumpy men

hunched on scuffed wooden seats

in the muggy summer heat

marking time.

And powerful fish

who, with a single flick of their silver tails

torpedo sleekly through the drink,

at home

in cool water, and silky weeds,

as oblivious to air

as they are to the outer planets.

A goggle-eyed fish

momentarily pauses,

distracted by something jiggly and red

dangling there.

Then flits swiftly past,

slipping beneath

the murky shadow

of the boat’s refracted light.