Summer 2004 • Vol. XXVI No. 3 Poetry |

Fishing for Perch

Fed up with Seattle's coffee jitters jamming the streets with SUVs, I tromp my boots on the arboretum boardwalk, going fishing. I feel better once I'm squinching a hook through a worm. As for you, perch, cream puff among convicts, preferring not to struggle when caught, I'll take solace from your no más, no más. Meantime, the bobber: trembles and blips tough to decipher, befuzzed, like radio signals from Liechtenstein, or moon-bounced messages on a Ouija board, as waterweeds go back and forth, back and forth like snoring. Thus the deadpans of fishermen. Hard to tell if the two on the bank are friends or not, till one speaks up, and the other laughs so ruefully I see the chockablock city skyline as busted teeth, I see the beatitudes' ruined mouth, as the small fry nibble, undecided.

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The Middle Age

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Fed up with Seattle's coffee jitters jamming the streets with SUVs, I tromp my boots on the arboretum boardwalk, going fishing. I feel better once I'm squinching a hook through […]

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