Hunched on a rough
and splintered wood seat,
fishing in freezing drizzle,
and snacking on a stale granola bar,
I dream that when I am old
I'll have a sleek bass boat,
foot-controlled trolling motor,
padded swivel seats,
and as many rods within reach
as a golfer has clubs.
Within sight will sit
my depth-finder with simulated 3-D
and tiny flashing red fish.
Spinners, divers, poppers, jigs, and flies
will be neatly arranged by size and color
with all hooks freshly honed
in a cooler-size tackle box.

But all the glossy fishing catalogues
can't recapture a young boy's joy
on a rickety, weathered dock
wielding a cold metal pole and dented reel,
casting
--just one last time--
a chipped bobber and garden-dug worm
while the lake's surface churns like splattering popcorn
beneath an approaching gray curtain of falling rain