For my Dad
Fishing on a Sunday
Sometimes I like to go back to the days
When everything wasn't so broken
And you would take me fishing
On the dock where you grew up.
The hot summer sun would beat down
On out hat covered heads
As the dock bobbed in the lazy Sunday current
And we waited with bait(ed) breath for a tug on the line.
I remember the first time I ever hooked a catch
We were both so happy as the dying fish
Flopped around on the hook in its mouth
And you took a picture to save the victory.
Everything seemed so simple back then
Watching for shapes underneath the surface
And now that life is as murky as that water
I wish that something would tug on my line
And pull me out of the depths.
YOU ARE READING
Wandering Minds
General Fiction"I wonder as I wander, out under the sky..." A compilation of short poems and stories that I don't know where else to put.
