Fishing Vest

I don’t like fishing.

But I like hyperbole.

It had a hundred pockets.

I saw it in the window

of the sporting goods store

and I thought: now every poem

shall have its pocket. And I thought:

let there be plenty of pens

and pocket combs, a pocket

dictionary, a box of raisins,

a pocket watch, a deck of cards,

and a pack of cigarettes.

I like a poem that can hold

numerous small swindles

and lots of harmonicas,

a childhood memory

of an imitation turd

from a novelty shop

on Hancock Street. I hadn’t

smoked in years, but now

I wanted a pack of cigarettes.

And I wanted a deck of cards.

I didn’t want to go fishing.

I didn’t give a shit

about fishing. What I wanted

was a poem that could hold

everything. Everything I wanted

and everything I didn’t want

but was dealt anyway.

I wanted those pockets.

A hundred of them.

And the one that got away.

Flash Issue 9