gone fishing

early in the morning,
he'd put on his
waders, his boots,
grab his tackle box,
his rods
and reels, his worms.
his dough balls
and cigarettes
and head down the river
via
panorama drive.
he'd park his white
chevy Malibu on the gravel
path,
then make his way down
to the shore
of the Potomac
river.
the sun almost
up.
the fish splashing
fat and large on the calm
water.
this was his
island, his retreat,
his sane place to be,
alone
waiting for the line to
move, to tighten,
for a fish to take the bait,
and strike.