Boat Nazis

Maybe you've seen them: red-necked and meaty,
one is always shaved, articulate and sinister--
he's the meanest; the other is fat with a beard
he's been growing since the land run. I'm standing
on a rocky shore casting my 39 cent Walmart jig
into murky Oklahoma water. From across the lake,
spreading huge ocean-like wake comes a boat: two
yahoos packing bass plugs the size of my head.
They cut the motor, an abrupt stop, thirty feet
(no more) from where I stand, waves smack
the rocks, splash spray on my glasses.
With a whirring zing, monofilament peels
from their reels: one plug, two plugs drop three feet
from where I stand, staring through my water-spotted
glasses, the look of a U-boat captain. We mentally
circle each other as in an old west showdown, casting
our plugs as the evening sky burns orange on my back.
They drift further up the shore, and I'm left
with some hard choices.

If I had a boat I'd give every shore-fisherman a ride,
take him or her to all the coves they've only dreamed
about (even if there are no fish there). I'd hoist
a howitzer on my bow and sink every boat nazi
and their 75 hp Merc that terrorized my landlocked
desire. I'd be the new Robin Hood-pirate of Midwestern
waters, dumping depth-finders into the muddy silt bottoms
they've never before found. Hell, I'd even turn loose
live bait. I'd sacrifice tackle to the souls of fish
long ago hooked by the merely practically sensitive
whose one pleasure in life is tormenting small,
defenseless creatures like birds, squirrels,
the sea otter, and folks without boats.

Maybe I'd even give up fishing . . . to drift
in peaceful Zen-like contemplation the natural
rhythms of my blood, the tender lapping of water,
the luminous dart of sunfish . . . and all the mysteries
of the clouds and cloudless skies would receive my
undivided attention, my supreme devotion, my only
hope and most earnest prayer: Rain on those bastards,
stove up their engine and scuttle them right there
in the middle of the whole God-driven

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