The old man, sometimes a poet,
and wearing his worn baseball cap,
was angling for a baseball poem,
something that would show
his love of the sport.
Such poems, he thought,
live under the sea,
traveling in different schools,
swimming at various depths.
Some longer, larger poems
troll the murky bottom, unseen
by poets searching for them.
Others, the smaller, lighter ones
are easy to pull in with
a few light flicks
of his poised pen.
He, poor angler, seemingly
working for scale pay,
cast out his lines
in the hopes of landing
a big catch, a poem rich in
baseball metaphors.
I need a bigger boat, he thought,
a larger craft fully rigged
to reel in the bigger haul
from the wellspring
of my imagination.
“I am tired of just skimming
the surface of my talents,”
he said to himself.
“I need to explore the
currents in my brain to capture
the largest baseball poem/fish
I possibly can.”
We wish the old man good luck.