Bass on the Bottom.

Sunnies rise at noon, pulled to the boat, Each golden belly flashing at the surface. The Bass abound, but snub the lures. They float Among the weeds and snooze, which makes us nervous. Our Great boast of catching largemouth sours. (The Only large mouths in our boat—are ours.) Resigned to haul in bass, we dramatize Every minnow's feeble tug as though a Sturgeon were below, at twice our size. Our luck is bad enough that were we Noah Recruiting fish, we'd snatch them in and wait To say, "Is this my brother's keeper? —Or bait?" Annoying? No. With brothers at each side, This is happiness personified. (No one counts a keeper as a prize: In one stroke, fish are fillets, fins & eyes.) (Some men troll sadly with a gaudy lure Some cast for wealth and endlessly are poor.) We sobered rowers, with no fish to keep Allow the bass—this time around—to sleep.