the tackle shop

The scent is heavy in the air, of that tiny shop,

Packed with feeders, hooks and spinners

Catching light that creeps in through the windows

High on walls, lines with rods like waving arms.

I sometimes touch while holding in my breath,

Hoping dearly, that none will topple

Taking down the rest.

But they just wobble underneath my fingertips,

Satisfying in the way they sing.

The man behind the counter whistles as he works,

Unaware that I am there, not understanding.

His green gilet is pinned with feathers,

The cap pulled low, he may be young,

I don’t know.

I run my hands through tubs of bait

That wriggle, tickle as they dance,

And wish that I could sit inside the dark display,

Mimicking a fishing swim, but without the water, or the fish.

I need to leave though, with the walls

Closing in like water closing overhead.

Stepping out into the sun baked air

And gasping for another breath.

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