Erie

Shorn from shore,

a horn sounds off the pike,

twinkling from a handheld (radio),

rippling waves lap rotted roots

clung in unnetted, black dirt bank

and,                                                there,

the clank of metal oars on metal planks,

a soft sigh of respite

--a restoration of recreation--

and the plisk of a tab popped.

The reel peels off into the night;

the quiet unhooked like a brisk zipper,

then the intake of breath,          the end of a rest,

and the bait is forever kept.

I got high, went fishing in my mind

and still came up empty-handed,

stranded,

oarless in the middle

of my mind’s own Lake Erie.