The Fishing Hole

soft waves slap in sleeping metronome
on a melted sand shore he is languidly reposed
dwarfed, but today:an adult
alone
trawling fortune and leisure by fishing pole
his knees a chin-holder
his ears and nose tomato-splattered by the sun
any other day, he wriggles on other's hook
with school primers under arm
but today he is the teacher
his students silver slivers slithering
below in glassine reflections of his eyes
perhaps this is all he was destined to catch
perhaps he accepts the disappointment of an empty bucket
but today
he is a fisher of men
finding his own soul
finding his own way