What We Do Is Secret

Today I met Bukowski. Or maybe it was Jim Harrison. Or maybe just someone else with all the manic cravings but none of the talent. He had a brown paper bag and he sat on the park bench without his shirt. He held open a leather-bound writing journal.

The water turned green over the past few days and the only way to see anything was by their tails. The thermometer hit 96 degrees and I stood on dried mud staring at glimpses of fish I knew I would not catch.

I walked by his bench and he tipped his bag at me. He could just be askew or maybe he was acknowledging a parallel situation, or the fact that any passerby would quicken their step to get past either one of us.

I could get out of this. A quick drive home and I’m back in regiment. I doubt he had any means of breaking down his frustrations into four pieces and locking them in a PVC tube under the hatchback.

3 thoughts on “What We Do Is Secret”

  1. Yeah I guess I meant frustrations. Noted and changed. I was hot and tired and fishless when I fired that off.

  2. Understandable. It does seem, however, that the demons tend to hand out in and around my gear, especially on hot days with spooky carp in chemically treated ponds.

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