Wednesday, April 15, 2015

The Trout And The Poet



I lie within a shady pool,
Beneath the April waters cool,
But I’m no greedy, half-starved fool,
     I’m just a trout.
A poet steals along the brink
And gives the pool a sly old wink;                     knowing
“You have a trout in you I think
     One long and stout.”

Then near me does he drop his bait,
And in a dreamy, bard-like state                        happy, dreamy
He sits upon the bank to wait
     Until I bite.
I stretch my fins and ope my eyes,
Then take a turn for exercise
And scoop the worm from where it lies,
     And sink from sight.

The poet yanks and sprawls and reels,
And kicks aloft his shapely heels,
And then a bare black hook reveals,
     But nary trout.
He tries the same thing o’er and o’er –
I scoop his angle as before,
And lay away a two week’s store,                              put
     Then he backs out.

Back to the city poet goes,
Fuller than ever of his woes,
And follows ‘round his sun-burned nose;
     Yet does he tell
About the splendid luck he had,
How he caught trout large as shad,
Which make the other trouters mad,                            made
     He fared so well.


April 15, ‘92
Camb. Press (May 7, ’92)
     and
Conn. Valley Ad.

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