Sausage for Dinner

 
The rain crowds out the top of the gutter at three in the morning.
He rubs his knobby right hand over his balding head
before pulling his rain hat on.

He walks down the wet streets. Lampposts
are seen in the black puddles, and concrete
is as polished as steel or glass this morning.

The rain had stopped when he got to the lake. Saddened,
he unbends his small fishing stool that's never felt his weight
then grabs his prepared rod.

The water folds in behind each spaceman stride. Stop. Still.
                          (the line shears the wind)

One,


two,


three.


Release.

His fly hits the weary water like a snowball on the snow.
Curious bubbles pop around the unreeled film,
the sun sheds its skin, clings to the surface
and the archaic scales flash, to where the light is kinder.