Maybe you've seen them: red-necked and meaty,
    one is always shaved, articulate and sinister--
    he's the meanest; the other is fat with a beard
    he's been growing since the land run. I'm standing
    on a rocky shore casting my 39 cent Walmart jig
    into murky Oklahoma water. From across the lake,
    spreading huge ocean-like wake comes a boat: two
    yahoos packing bass plugs the size of my head.
    They cut the motor, an abrupt stop, thirty feet
    (no more) from where I stand, waves smack
    the rocks, splash spray on my glasses.
    With a whirring zing, monofilament peels
    from their reels: one plug, two plugs drop three feet
    from where I stand, staring through my water-spotted
    glasses, the look of a U-boat captain. We mentally
    circle each other as in an old west showdown, casting
    our plugs as the evening sky burns orange on my back.
    They drift further up the shore, and I'm left
    with some hard choices.

    If I had a boat I'd give every shore-fisherman a ride,
    take him or her to all the coves they've only dreamed
    about (even if there are no fish there). I'd hoist
    a howitzer on my bow and sink every boat nazi
    and their 75 hp Merc that terrorized my landlocked
    desire. I'd be the new Robin Hood-pirate of Midwestern
    waters, dumping depth-finders into the muddy silt bottoms
    they've never before found. Hell, I'd even turn loose
    live bait. I'd sacrifice tackle to the souls of fish
    long ago hooked by the merely practically sensitive
    whose one pleasure in life is tormenting small,
    defenseless creatures like birds, squirrels,
    the sea otter, and folks without boats.

    Maybe I'd even give up fishing . . . to drift
    in peaceful Zen-like contemplation the natural
    rhythms of my blood, the tender lapping of water,
    the luminous dart of sunfish . . . and all the mysteries
    of the clouds and cloudless skies would receive my
    undivided attention, my supreme devotion, my only
    hope and most earnest prayer: Rain on those bastards,
    stove up their engine and scuttle them right there
    in the middle of the whole God-driven

Copyright © Tom Dvorske, 2001.  All Rights Reserved.