A New Meal, An Old Meal

Would you like me to read it to you?

He was cooking along on his bike

when I saw him – the corked handle
of an old bone-colored fishing pole
in his left hand, a limp fish dangling
from a hook in the other, its scaly shine
searing under the afternoon sun. It was
not until he was startled from his attention
to avoid me that he noticed my hand
opened with hello. He proudly raised
the fish’s tail to his eyebrows while his
knees groaned to the pace of his bike's
chattering gears. Hungry he pedaled on,
cutting the street from corner to corner,
much like my mother would slice apart
my grilled cheese sandwiches, and as the
plastic edge of my rearview swallowed him
l leaned a bit to follow, hoping to have
a little more but saw only crumbs
and an empty plate.


Written for One Shot Wednesday, will you not stop by and give it a shot?