A ten year old boy




A ten year old boy
grabs the 
fishing gear catalogue
from the floor
by the door
where it fell
through the slot.
He takes it to the living room
with blanket milk and cookies
flops down on bony elbows
and flips through glossy pages
upon pages of lures like jewels
and reels of alloyed aluminum
and turned titanium
perfected machines
for catching fish
finders that now show 
not just blips in the blue
but what the fish themselves are eating
and what they ate last night
and how they feel about the weather
spool upon box upon spindle of
line and tippet and leader
floating sinking and mid-level lines
of every kind
rods of every conceivable length
and type
and quality
and material
and portability
and boxes and bags 
for all this inconceivable variety of glorious gear
and vests with a thousand pockets
and purpose-built hats 
and hip-boots and waders
to wear while using it all

and 
a man,
forty-two 
years of age,
puts down this 
glamour-mag for 
guys, this piece of 
Piscean porn, 
vaguely disappointed 
in his new-found disinterest,
wipes,
stands up,
pulls up
his pants
and flushes.







...puttin' the Poo' Po' in NaPoWriMo...
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8 thoughts on “A ten year old boy

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