Cobalt River luring a fish on its side
stones streaked in moss slide between toes
across the waterfall he soaks an aged face
drowning his sorrows,

chewing Mouthfuls of tobacco
thumb pressing worms onto hooks
scorched hand reeling in the fish
bleed with the envy of others,

his bucket collecting the guts of his pain
slush remains, along with the dead stench
of sardines and old forties tunes,


the dreams which drifted this stream when he
was a boy have long gone,
eaten by the birds
his laughter left back in time
packed up in a suitcase.