a.
a new best friend rolls off a bar stool,
way too early on a tuesday morning,
tells me about the time
he went squid-jigging in seattle,
armed only with a primitive rod, a small flashlight,
and a sincere desire to live.
his light shone amongst many others,
grazing the harbor's surface
for any sign
of a tentacle's flux.
suddenly, a pink rubber hose
seemed to wiggle, just beneath
such a miniscule beam, and he jerked that rod
just so, and the ignorant squid
jigged onto that hook, and got reeled in,
neighboring jiggers staring down at his luck
with scud missiles for eyes.
as the beast squirmed on the dock,
flailing tentacles seeking a return
to the regularity of the sound,
he stared into those motionless eyes
and said:
"don't forget about me, darling."
b.
i went to seattle, tried out jigging
for myself, by my lonesome
as the full moon made the sound a stage
where reckless lines intertwined.
two hours and such, in and out, no
wiggles in evidence, until, as midnight tolled
and most of the jiggers had gone home,
and my flashlight was running low on batteries,
an unexpected swish of water,
a darkened mass of something perhaps tasty,
as i flung my rod closer, and he took the bait.
i brought him onto the slickness of the dock,
where he died without a care,
and i stared into those motionless eyes
and said:
"don't forget about me, darling."
c.
my new best friend delighted in our shared passion,
as an appetizer of panko-clad calamari
stared at us from a too-big plate,
and our forks became jigs
the air wafting saltspray and barnaclebreath,
and the waitress, her auburn hair a mismatch for her shoes,
would not even make conversation,
but i stared into her velvet eyes
anyway
and said:
"don't forget about me, darling."
