gone fishing

he could stand

all day
on the low bridge
fishing.

his tackle box, his bucket,
his
beer
beside him

on the cold grey day.

sometimes the fish would
bite,
sometimes
nothing.

not a wrinkle in the quiet
pond
below him.

but it wasn't about fish.
about
the sport
of it all.

it was something else,
a place
he needed to be outside

his walls.