Catching The Dalmatian

Just before he wakes up he reaches

for another jumbo shrimp.  The cooler,

nearly depleted, is a mix of slushy bait

and warming beer.  He snags one or

the other –he can’t remember which—

and wishes the odd lights at the bottom

of the dark pool weren’t so…what?

Hypnotic? Inviting? He sips his beer,

stabs another jumbo on the barbed

hook, flicks his ash and, with a flick

of wrist, casts the weighted bait.

A plop and a wait.  Half in the bag,

it’s hard to tell how long it takes

to finally sink to the bottom.

He’s had better days, he thinks;

he’d like to think that better days

are still ahead, but the bottom

of the pool beckons. A sudden tug.

He jerks the rod to set the hook.

His head reels; “Dogfish,” he thinks,

“Or something worse,” and cuts it

loose.  He lights another smoke,

reaches for another beer, sits and

watches the neighbor’s spotted dog

take a dump on his August lawn.