Because You Want To Go Fishing.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

living in the country
of your birth. Fishing.

immigrating to america.
you say, what is the difference?

is joy a folded paper?
is sadness graffiti?

inside the bus bound for
Dakota. It is you mind going fishing.

memories are schools of fish.
resembling shaped of a whale.

then you arrive at conclusions.
same roads. same canals. same boats.

same sun. same people. same food.
same conversations. You want to go

fishing. Back to your country.
Your place of birth. You go fishing.

foul smell of dead fish floating
on the polluted river. Then the
flood of

ideas. Fresh air.Fresh talk from
fresh people. You are finally alive
and you go on

fishing without anybody else. The
fish are all yours which you throw

away into the sky to watch a kite
connecting you to the clouds.