I smiled and shrugged
my shoulders, as if to
show indifference, when you
asked me if I would like
to go fishing with you.
I’ve never considered it
a hobby, not even a pass time.
I certainly appreciate the comfort;
the leisure of sliding the oars
back and forth, back and forth
over the undisturbed surface of
a stream or a lake, as you course
through the landscape. But how
is this made better by waiting
around peevishly for something
to swim by and be caught? How
is it anything but unsettling,
the sight of a silvery width
twitching from the gore of a hook,
its life now dependent on you?
For instance, imagine the first man who
accidentally caught a fish; imagine
his sleepless nights; the dying fish
staring into his eyes, the acute stench
of its rot forever in his hands.