Gone Fishing

Lone spearmen walk the banks,
Sharp-eyed and selective,
they choose their prey:
A meal reserved for few.
The act itself, exclusive.

Others prefer hooks,
taut lines, and sinkers—
bells on their poles.
They wait in lawn chairs
talking weather.
at the sound of a strike.

Ships, less particular,
use nets. No time
for shoreline discrimination,
they sort their catch later,
or not at all
then sell it to the masses
by the pound.

I prefer a bobber,
red and white,
I can go for days without a bite.

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