the fisherman

it was always early
morning
when he arose, showered,
grabbed this thermos
full of coffee, his cigarettes.
the worms
in a box, blood worms,
fresh and cold
from the refrigerator
shelf.
the gear was in the car.
the rods
the reels, hooks and sinkers,
a tackle box.
worn and bruised.
a knife on his belt,
the lucky lures, his
homemade mix
of jello and dough,
for the carp and catfish
that twisted thick
and slow, in the low
depths of mud and weed.
the sun, a small plate
of yellow rising
between the trees.
his hip boots on,
as he waded out,
a cigarette lit between
his lips,
casting as he walked
calmly towards the edge
of the water.