"Aplin: Fishing," Los Angeles County Arboretum /  flickr


poem | 8.3.17


by A.S. Coomer



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,


oarless in the middle

of my mind’s own Lake Erie.


A.S. Coomer is a writer, musician, artist and taco enthusiast. He's had two novels published recently: Rush's Deal (Hammer & Anvil Books) & The Fetishists (Grindhouse Press). His fiction, poetry & creative nonfiction has appeared in over forty literary journals, magazines, anthologies & the like. Websites: www.ascoomer.com www.ascoomer.bandcamp.com


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