Hook, Fly and Thread

It was a very good year,
at the time.

Barely fourteen,
I rushed after class.
My job awaited.
Nickel a hook.
My independence.
Carefully attach the fly.
Wrap the cinch neck.
Knot the hold.
Keep gaze at close attention.
Learn barbs have little patience.

Line up their curvatures.
Package them neat.
Respect their dignity.
No gloves.
Bare skin risking.
Gambler in training.
Learning rudiments…
Boss man said.

They’ve but one purpose
they fulfill without question.

Willing once.

Willing twice.

Ready to be whipped.
Arcing for that next chance.
Keen to challenge depths of persistence.

Touch down.
Skitter not.
Ballet the bob and weave.
Hold tight the line.
Temp the temptress.
Swim the course.

Ah, life’s first basic lessons learned.

School completed.
The call of the wild.
Gone the wrist and finger finesse.
Gone the whip and place.
K to twelve’s grace and modesty,
now history.

Willing to cast adolescence adrift…

I lowered myself
into chasms deep,
monster fish to bait and tempt.
Pick the darkest hole.
Biggest catch.

But, the penalty.
Oh, the penalty.

Hooks in my eyes.
Hooks in my smile.
Hooks with my handshake.
Slips,
Rips.
Trips.

Later…

Harpooned a mermaid.
Trophy time.

Yet…

Quiet waters raged.
Barbed kisses snarled my tether.
Dragged me mercilessly deep.
Held me tight.
Pulled my naive cautions to the bottom.
Rapped.
Tangled.
Hooked to the dark.
Anchoring ignorance to drown.

Then…

Not-so-very-good-years later,
much later,
consciousness returned.
Light pierced the fathoms dark.
Early lessons whispered again.

Nothing takes its place,
those fly-hook lures after school,
where blackboard logic ceased to be.
Fishin’ hole wisdom came front and center,
eager to tell me hooks grow larger,
fear graduates into rapids to rip and tear
until lesson learned.

Beware the mermaid,
before suffering takes its limit.

For the lucky…

Hook,
fly,
and thread return
as one’s life-long friends…

Again.