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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