A tubby boy dangled
a pumpkin head perch
on a hook with a lively worm
and offered it a deal
“Okay, little fishy, if you tell me
a secret or two I’ll let you go
If you don’t I’ll cut off your head
with my birthday knife”
A stalemate ensued:
the boy intent on an answer;
the perch puffing and pursing
Not wanting to dirty his birthday blade,
only a few signs directly from nature,
the basic whats? whys? and wherefores?:
why earth was rather green, the stars rather silver,
the lad gritted his teeth, dug his boots firmly
in the mud by the farm pond,
revived his hostage with periodic dips
into the languid sheen of silent waters
A breeze blew through the afternoon,
frogs grunted, bugs buzzed,
the fish hung silent and slick
until the boy thirsted for cold lemonade
“Okay, Mr. Fish,
you slimy little bastard,”
the chubby boy conceded
in desperate need of a bologne sandwich
“Enough for now
You can have my worm
But one day, I swear,
I will own the secrets
you hold in your eyes”