It used to be there, that magical place
where you and I sat and dangled poles into
frigid waters below; dreams of trout the
size of our heads perched precariously
in the form of worms on hooks. We laughed
and sang stupid songs while drinking soda
pop stolen from the five-and-dime. Life was
good when we looked down on the river
from that rickety old bridge. But we burned
that cliché down years ago, and now I fish alone.