‘Foolers’ were the culvert-dwelling carp
That flourished in the ditches between fields.
They were not highly prized as a sport fish
Yet it was my ambition as a child
To catch one, and I squandered fruitless hours
Pestering them with a bare line and hook.
Then I conceived of bait, and tried my luck
With a half baloney slice I took
From half of my lunch sandwich, and it worked,
And I stood holding a caught fish, unsure
Of what to do with it, until my mom
Came over and told me to throw it back.
Watching as it vanished up the ditch,
I felt proud that I’d caught a real live fish,
But disappointed with the end result,
Not yet aware that most schemes fizzle out.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, David Stephenson would
be pleased to hear them.