Carl Newlen

Scarface

- July 10, 2009, 3:05 pm | Poetry

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When I fished Miller`s pond
on a dock made from an old church pew,
there was nothing I wanted more of.
Scarface, yes, if he were given.
If not, then another day for trying.

I heard he can`t be landed, a face
so furrowed by hooks and shear strength
it`s good he lives in the dark water.
Saying that is enough.

At midday he lies cool in the center,
feeds with the rise and set of the sun.
The thrill is at the twang of the pole
where only three things matter:
my hunger for conquest,
his wild passion for life,
the six-pound test line
connecting us.

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