Salt

this weekend i wanted to go fishing.

pre-dawn coffee steaming on the bow of the skiff,

as my hands work over the hitch.

tangles of rods and line, rust on hooks.

childers creaks and crackles 

through busted speakers,

breaking the hum of tires.

i nod to the slicker suit on the dock,

a respect i crave.

the smell.

two turns of the key at least,

seventy horses choking and sputtering and smoking and roaring.

floating.

i taste the salt in the wind,

and it reminds me.

the cast, the bump, the fight,

slowly, he swims away, and i am content.

a hard day of doing nothing calls for coolers of lone star,

cold on fingers worn from the sun.

childers plays louder now around the fire.

this weekend i wanted to go fishing.

and then it rained.