Poem 2

Continuing on with my poetry portfolio, this was the second poem I wrote.



He asks if he can go fishing. I imagine him to be Salvador Dali

but there are no tuna here and he has no mustache.

He, who would eat his net gains if I let him.

He, who would throw them back if only I’d help him. But I can’t.

I want to help him as much as he wants to do it himself, but we both fear

those spiny stabbing, dorsal daggers.

The river slaps the dock, a half-hearted sadist

and the only tears are his while

the Bluegill struggles to breathe water

full of salt. It fails. As do we.

The worm is gone and I hope it’s

deep in the belly for the fish’s sake. No one

ever gives a fuck about the worm.

I am no different. A boat comes by and the boy

waves for their attention. They smile, wave back

when what he wanted was their assistance.

I figure out how to free the fish soon after.

It jumps off the dock…I would have thrown it back.

By that, I mean I would have used my foot.

All is well until tomorrow when he asks if he can fish.


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