he sat on the off-balance swivel
fingers click-clacking the qwerty
casting side-ways glances
towards the term paper
hand-written
“and then”
“he took”
“the fish”
painstakingly slow
with wrinkles of determination
etched into an aged forehead
“the dock”
“was faded”
“greying Alder”
my desire was all encompassing
to run and to aid
push him aside and type
wind-style
multi words per minute
and knock this assignment out
“the old man”
“took my fishing rod”
“placed it into the truck”
the pressure mounts
and I develop my own wrinkles
each keystroke
a fresh new torment
for us both
“we drove”
“in silence”
“all the way home”
I sit in shock
eyes, both glazed and bulging
fixated on the far wall timepiece
barely hear the words,
“Mr. Temple,
would you print this
for me?”
an exhale passes my lips
I was unaware I was holding
And I reply simply,
“Happily!” –