A fishing rod, and fishing, is and are one
Of those things that were supposed to caulk
The seam between us. Hence, we went
(For some reason I distinctly recall Easter)
As you walked (or rode) with me down to the
Park. I played (or would) football upstream where
Every year, and so often, the creek would loose its
Beds and reclaim some plot of land, if only for a moment
Or a week.
Arriving I decided why not take a swing, and try
To cast, I wouldn’t need your eye, or any further
Education as to how a mechanism I have never seen
Would work. It’s fine you push the button and—
That knot was one of the easier ones and while
You took your time, I hopped rail ties to pass mine.
When you called, I arrived, and you assured me I
Would benefit from just a modicum of—alas,
I couldn’t take it, and I tried again, through the sides
Of my eyes to make a cast.
This one took a bit longer so I walked through a gazebo
To a baseball field that hadn’t been for years. The dirt stained
My knees, but that’s expected when men are doing.
You did not agree, and asked me to stay put. I gave a nod,
Then stood and reached again for that goddamn rod.
But this time you resigned, and said “I won’t fix it this time.
You’ve made your reel, now wind it,” How unfair. I cursed
And screamed until the sweat that couldn’t bead yet
On my underarms and forehead boiled over. So you then
Relented and began to wind my reel again.
I walked outside, the backdoor through the play room, (something
Like 1200 square feet, give or take) to the yard I hadn’t
Had in quite a while. A sea of grass (well sort of–let time pass!)
That begged to feel a bobber. I prepared and gave instruction
Then I shuffled back, attempting to avoid a hoo—no not like that.
THAT knot, and its displeasure, the crux of Celtic pride.
And maybe somewhere between the two of us (you being mine
And, with her, I a one), the kernels of our shared wisdom collide;
It’s not enough to only be heroic,
But to try.