There are so many poems
about fishing, but it’s been
ten year since I touched a pole.
It takes patience and hope
to cast a line into murky lake
and wait
for some fish to bite
the baited hook and hold on
long enough to be pulled
flopping from the water.
Cool, foggy dawns
in rusty, old rowboats
rocking with the current
are totally foreign.
I don’t know
the places or the proper times
to drop a line
and couldn’t tell
bluegill from smallmouth bass.
Maybe that is why I’ve never
made much of a poet.