An old fisherman casts his line
youthful testaments are biting this day
lost sentiments that keep the years at bay
and soften the pain in his spine,
“soon enough you will all be mine,”
to our detriment this I heard him say
a raspy voice like sediment at play
in the throat where it was conveyed.

He could not see – the hook was lost,
one of weathers mischievous tricks
scattered to the wind like an albatross
the lure now trapped behind a brick
far from the place it had been tossed
this cold weekend when the fog was so thick.

I approached the man from behind
having heard his empty threat to the sea
the absurd claim of dominion irked me,
“Bad luck, your hook is in a bind,”
I said with effort to be kind
though something else was stirred by my decree
as if harsh words instead fought themselves free
attacking the first they could find.

“Fish will bite brick as well as worm
if I’ve learned one thing in my life,”
as if I needed the lesson to learn.
“That must be the source of my strife
I’m sure all these fish I’ve caught can confirm,”
I conceded and returned to my wife.