| . | He used to dangle his legs from the jetty,
place his empty bucket, his water bottle,
and his ice-cream container of worms
close by, thread one onto his hook, and
drop the line in. When he'd caught three,
or the dusk approached, he'd go home. |
| . |
Now he sits on the bed in his van with
his water bottle and his bucket and his
ice-cream container, threads the junk into
the needle, binds his arm till the worms
stand up under the skin, and plunges
the bait into his ebbing brine. The time
is always dusk, and there's always just
one more scaly shadow to be hooked,
and even as he subsides onto the bed
he feels his feet dangling over the edge
and he wonders how far to the surface
of the water, how far below? |
|