FISHING FOR A POEM – Part One

Drifting, searching shallow and deep

frolicking fish around me leap.

If I’m to find the one that’s right

it must appear sometime tonight.

Although there’s a tug on my line,

reeling it up I only find

a plastic milk carton missing

poetry’s sure  thing with a zing.

I refuse to bump

Into Donald J. Trump,

the damn demic’s boredom

or Epstein’s whoredom.

The waves slap quietly as I row,

while moonlight shines on me below.

But where’s the rhyme for which I search

as in my boat I try to perch?

I need to jump in to embrace,

arms open wide so as to taste

the meaty, throbbing of the node

that’ll help my poem to implode.

Now in the depths I can see slugs,

worms, loud weeping and coffee mugs.

Tears and water mix together

To make a poem’s sudden weather.

Near now!  I can feel it lurking

A little tug, then it perking.

The mind’s eye finds within the pits

the hidden object of my wits.

This fine night it appears to be

calling out for me to see.

And there it is, a wooden box

On the bottom, without locks!

TO BE CONTINUED