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.