the fisherman

i never

knew anyone that loved

fishing

as much as big Mike did.

since the age

of twelve

he was digging up worms

in the back yard,

or making

dough balls

with jello

mix to catch carp at Great Falls.

he had

custom made

spinners

and rods, a tackle box full

of fly's

and weights,

hooks and nylon reels 

of line.

he'd put his waist high boots

on 

at the crack of dawn

and drive his Chevy Malibu

down

to the banks of the Potomac

River

at Fort Washington

with his box of blood worms

and cast

away.

filling his white bucket

up

as the sun went down,

with perch

and catfish,

herring

and whatever else swam

his way.