One fisherman was sleeping on a bench
(a bench newly painted green, for that matter).
His bicycle was leaning against a tree not far
from him, his gear in a milk-crate tied
to the handle-bars. For God's sake,
have a little consideration! Why wake him?
Another fisherman was sitting on a stone block,
a stone block glittering with mica.
He pulled up a grouper whose face, though
bug-eyed, looked a little too philosophical
and lazy to put up much of a fight. He was
apparently something of a good-for-nothing fish,
a ne'er-do-well, albeit harmless and gentle-natured.
We'll let him be (gulping air
in the angler's plastic bucket). But I digress.
A waterlogged copy of Hoyle's Book of Games
was floating in an overturned
motorcycle seat in the silt not far from shore.
Let's call it a day. Shall we? Yes.
It's a day, a day of well-being for idlers.
We'll let one fisherman sleep,
and let the other angler's day's catch glitter
with the silver-green light of the awful spirit.