Flatfish

Bait up, lower, wait.

It takes not out of hunger,

but an urge to smother this

offering from above.

Three, four staccato jerks.

You set.  Dead weight rockets away,

peeling line at will

and you become a hostage

on the other end of monofilament.

On the second run

when rain begins to sound

like music at work,

your catch spreads into stealth,

not wishing to leave the faded depths

where light and darkness merge

among sections of ships once navigated

by nameless captains.

You adjust the drag, thumb down,

stop, brace, readjust, lift, lower

gain some, wind, lower, raise,

crank, spin, lower, lift,

crab crawl towards the club.

Slowly ascends the brindled prize.

They come up white side rolling

into taupe side spinning.

When you think the sparring is over

line goes limp and the run

you and your heart have taken ends.

Hands now hold a lifeless chase.

You curse a hooded saint

who walks across water.