at the moment before
I put my pen to the paper
who knows what’s gonna come out
not even I will know the subject sometimes
a particular mood
may set me along the way
like rage anger fear loss pain
sometimes smiles or butterflies
the way the yerllow moon large
rises above the beginning of a long
evening’s work for the fisherman
outside the bay
shimmering the light
choppy not calm
not rough
to the weathered face
of the sicillian
dragging his net
raping the coast
its only business
he leans over the bow
tar tobacco yellow his spits
nothing personal
he’d rather sit with the rod
searching awaiting exciting duels
man versus the unknown
mystery fish dark sitting
jagged coastline
for the big one
will it come
tonight?
in his life time?
or a tale to be passed
with the rod to the next in line
having more faith
than a saint
with every cast.