the fisher man

The Lonely Fisherman

He sat on a rowing boat in the fjord
he wore a yellow
raincoat and a southwestern cap matching his coat
was like seeing a French movie, an intellectual one
I couldn’t stand by the window all-day
reading sat on the sofa reading a novel
a book too long, a mind-numbing love story.
I read several pages, then gave up and looked out of the window
the boat was there,
and his cap was floating like a life raft for
I held my breath had he drowned, then the man got
up he had fallen in his boat, perhaps slipped on a dead fish,
but other ways looked fine
He began rowing to shore and tied the boat to the small pier
walking up the track to my cabin, he carried fish in a plastic bag
I dived behind the sofa when he knocked on my door, in case he was selling fish.
polite if he was of the talkative kind
 bore me with
endless fishing tales.
Back on the boat, he untied the rope turned gave me the finger.