Old fishermen
sit on the shore
of Green Lake
in chilling patience;
their poles propped up.
They hold them
firm and tight
‘tween Gore-Tex thighs.
Palms press as though
in prayer
for a fish to swim by
a U-Dub girl to come
jogging by;
bright bosoms bobbing
beneath neon
pink sports bras.
The way all these
old fishermen
crank their heads,
catching nothing
but a glance,
looking back
at the young
jogging girls;
I suspect they are
admiring their lure.
Yanking their best line,
an old fisherman might ask
if they’d be interested in
trading some tackle.
But that’s the problem
with all the old fishermen
’round Green Lake;
they get their lines
tangled in the weeds
and can’t reel them in.
Of course,
it’s not much easier
for an ageing writer
walking clockwise,
watching all the young
jogging girls pass me
I like to think, though,
that some of the lines
I cast on these walks
are too strong to break;
even at the rejection
of a pretty young jogging girl
or a paperback poetry journal.

written on 06/11/2014 by: Matt Kane