For years he caught a fish
For his hymn
It was a game and thrill
From the ridge
And outskirts
He parked his car
Hiking thru the forest
Often whistling a tune
Surely enjoying the views
And the company
While singing Oh My Darling
Clemetine
To his goad
A wide open lake
His only refuge
Fishing brought him comfort
Like *** does
As often as a blue moon
When he caught one
Some say for effect
The fish would wiggle
His whistles pitching
Pitching
From the mound
To the batter's box
Sometimes high
More often low and bought
And to his demise the big ones
End up escaping
Why he would ask
A snap of fate, they say
Twice a month
Which was a good month
He tested the waters
He would dip his toe in
His manhood at bat
Always relishing
The aesthetics
From the outskirts
To the ridge
The walk thru the forest
Thru and thru
Back in forth
It never got old
Even for his whizzing heart
Stranger as it seems
A stranger in the dark
The years
The decades
The lost opportunities
Decending
To the whispers
And knowing sneers
From his peers
Life had fewer cast for him
And fewer blue moons
Where he is now resigned
To his hands of fate

Logan Robertson

1/04/2020