i ask the man as he casts his
line out into
the rough lake.
nothing,
he says. not yet.
he has a styro-foam cup
of live worms
at his boot.
a tackle box open
with hooks and lead weights,
plastic bobbers
and a knife.
he reels in again,
then casts out once more
in a different direction.
he takes a silver flask
out of his jacket
and takes a sip.
he waits.
we're all waiting for
something.
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