Ice Fisher

He points across the ice,
there's Wayne, Chet,
and Trang.

In this darkhouse
he observes fish
drift across a gravelbar
like blown leaves,
sees panfish scatter
as a muskie
trolls beneath his hole
like a submarine,
so close
he could reach down
and caress
its slippery hide.

He's fished the city lakes
since he was a kid,
not a Post-Modernist,
he offers astute theories
on bait presentation
and the controversial
gathering of
goldenrod galls.

Sunday noon
and he's packing his sled,
hasta go
eat dinner
with his wife.
Doesn't know what
they'll talk about.
She works fulltime
in a nursing home,
has for years.
She only talks about
old people,
and he just can't stand it.