The Summer Before Last Summer
Taking the fishing trip I never had as a boy,
I'm standing on the boat's port side because,
well, I like standing, the handle of my rod 
propped against my gut.  I'm a man.  
It's what men do. When I feel my line go taut, 

I begin to reel it in.  I'm not very good at this, 
& it's a struggle.  Nothing like Santiago's 
great fish, I'll confess, but there's definitely 
something on the other end.  Maybe a hubcap,
maybe a fish.  Like a pediatrician, 

I have little patience, which
I expect to snap, that is, if my hands don't cramp.
I draw the line in, take up the slack 
until, with just a gentle jerk, I'm left 
holding a pole, limp & weightless. 

My arms can't describe my loss.  I stop, eyes fixed 
on white fins cutting across the surface.  
I think sharks, but upon closer inspection,
I see it's my old man, young again behind 
the wheel of his '60 Plymouth, off on a binge,
 
driving home the long way, the wrong way.