A Fishing Pole
My father gave me one once
Oh I don’t know how many years hence
Could be twenty, twenty-five?
Taught me with a bobber with live bait;
I wasn’t old enough to cast
To jig a lure and throw just right.
My father is a different person on the water,
Comes to life in a way not often seen
In the mundane busyness that is daily life,
Lights up, a gleam in the aquamarine eyes
He gifted me.
A simple flick of the wrist,
A soaring cast, a look that could grace
Someone who’d just won the lottery.
A complex man, he,
One whom I’ve yet to understand.
His nirvana is his boat, the lake,
The shimmering arc of a bass soaring onboard,
The char, perhaps, of that bass
Grilled to perfection.
A football match watched together?
Perhaps not, but perhaps yes.
He’s come to love the Arsenal
Perhaps? As much as I,
Though I doubt he’ll match my Cannon ink.
I went on the water with him once,
In North Carolina,
(I got burned horribly, which should come
To no surprise to anyone who’s seen my skim-milk-white skin)
And his eyes, those aquamarine gems
Were alight with a fire I’ve so rarely seen
A fire that would light the world
Heart to a passion I’ve only known as witness
Never experienced personally, but my father was alight
A passion I can only dream of.
A brilliant man, capable of anything,
But this, this lake, these bass —
This is what he was meant to do.
I sit here, taking in the spray
Only as a witness.
Destructive Anachronism 