Grafton Pond Poem by Peter Morton

A man sets out
with his fishing rod.
He isn't really fishing
but it makes a good excuse
to do what men do
when they are
pretending not to.

Anyway, it's that time of day
when the evening sun
makes the pond blaze,
it's a scene out of
a coffee table book,
young lovers in kayaks, their
silhouettes framed against
a deepening color of sky.

He ties a spinner on,
casts far out
into
the perfect flatted calm.

I am not a philosopher, he thinks,
but this life of mine
is a fishing line,
monofilament,
barely seen,
stretching into depths
where hidden thoughts
nibble at the edge
of consciousness.

Sunset peaks
and fades into oblivion.
The man sighs
and reels in.
Fish-less he
packs his tackle and walks towards his pickup.