poem

when we old midwesterners say I’m Fishin’ at the Lake:

we mean ‘here’ in this here photo of the lake with pier, 

the night coming on slowly and the breeze risen’, makin’

these riffles and ripples. the fish may and may not bite. 

they may be coming up for feed, or going deep for still.

you don’t know, so you set your line in the mud/sand/rock

of the lake shore and pop open a brewskis and enjoy the

coolness, on account of the heat of the day, you were in

there in the old inner tube, just paddling around like the 

kids, all relaxed, thinking about that sandwich in the dank

cooler and some chips and the crisp late summer apple.

all over the nation, FisherPeople are looking for this very

lake of their childhoods’ memories, and wanting smells 

of summer tans and sunscreen, and weeds, and fish all

splashing out there, maybe taking the bait, maybe, not. 

it don’t matter. it’s all in the imagination, anyways. they 

say, You can never ‘go Home’. I say, Go find your Lake! 

that’s ‘Home’ enough, when the day is right! Go Fish!