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.

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