A wise man once said: “Teach a man to fish, and though he's fed for life, he'll call you a miser for not giving him your fish.”

The tension in the room is a taut wire,

ready to break, but we can’t feel it like

we feel the glow of our television.

We’re laughing at a man in a gray shirt.

It warms our bodies,

But only when we watch him together.

We clamber to our own separate spaces,

flit the bedroom with dust as we gather

our pillows to prep for our red faces.

The room is silent.

After what seems like a minute of sleep,

a tiny sun sparks on the holy ceiling

in a restless excitement of copper,

coloring the room in a glow of primer—

Tungsten is the best alarm.

“Let’s go fishing!” we hear the room exclaim,

“I’m gonna teach you to catch a big one!”

Our bodies wince with effort so to crane

our necks towards all our gear for our “Fun.”

It’s raining and we drag our feet

Into the saddle or our pick-up’s heat

turned on full blast.  My eyes feel like they will

have heart attacks as the coarse engine purrs

into a lull.  When we get there, the boat

hasn’t arrived, and we fall back asleep.

Get a call saying the boat won’t be there,

engine’s broke down.  It’s raining and we drag

our four by four through the rain.  “Do we dare

fish ourselves out in these conditions?” Like a crag,

the thought slips out our minds.

Remember we went fishing on the waiting list

for kidneys and rolled around Baltimore?

I’m still amazed that a place like that rains.

Streets wove into spidery concoctions

of wired, sinewy hope.

Remember those days that I visited

And that time I slept in the hospital?

That dirt feeling in vinyl bibs twisted

skin for a shower--every crevice begged—

so I could see you again.

Remember the nights I was kept awake,

sending bottles to an ocean of words,

opinions, and lies that would not stop to

listen through the lost connection of a

tiny lit window sill?

Most of all, remember that desperate cry

outside my force field of linen blankets

to say you’d be back to keep my eyes dry;

Recline in that chair and say, “Told you I’d make it?”

But I went back to Baltimore.

We clutched hands like we had never felt skin.

The light made us pale yellow, and dust formed

on our once-strong, full scalps.  Your mouth parted,

and I heard you yelling with your collapsed throat,

“Don’t go.  Don’t go.”

I return to the room we once sat in

and recline thinking of you.  Next to me

there’s a reel and a spool of line within.

The spool is tangled over and will fee

my time to fix again.

I pile over all your notebooks and clothes;

there are bibles and little league trophies

and toys galore.  Wonder how you managed

to fit it all in the house.  Then I find

something written by you:

“Dear Loved One, My how you’ve grown; I am proud

of the way you have ultimately changed

for the better.  I could pick you out of crowds

even if you aren’t good at prearranged

music you’ve never seen.

Always be proud of you, no matter what.”

By the time I’m done cleaning, I notice

the spool halfway untangled by my own

hand.  The matted nest is too much for my

Fingers, so I pocket it.

For now.  I was never good at fishing;

you didn’t care.  The adventure of going out

was what enthralled and lightened your wishing,

calloused fingers; feeling of having bouts

with your own tired feet.

I hope you’re still proud of me, since I no

longer fish.  You see, I’ve caught such a huge,

warm, slimey fish that I don’t have to know

how to fish anymore.  The reel and spool,

knot by knot, continues to untangle.