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Hook, Line, and Sinker
He lives on the raggedy rigged sailboat,
moored in mire, the slip's oily water.
Crushed cap, dingy guayaberra,
and torn shorts give him away.
Living under the Plimsoll line,
salty lowlife looks at the ladies
lift smooth thighs over the gunwales,
covert gawk at sweet eye candy.
He makes overtures when he dares,
afraid of dismissive glances. His words
chum the waters for the lonely, ready
to reel them in to his damp bunk.
They toss the hook and his cheap line, stare
as the smelly bait sinks to dark depths.
ã J. Fowler
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