The Fisherman Poem by Morgan Michaels

Once upon a time, there was a man who fished for a living, daily trolling for haddock and other fishy kine in the Sound of Long Island, which is really a bight. He had survived the earlier, more adventurous parts of life, and with gratitude had given up any idea of world conquest, concentrating now on paying the bills.

He had only one bad habit- he played the horses- like his father before him, which speaks a lot for the genetic theory, but his twin brother in Maryland did not, which didn't. Be that as it may, by getting up very early and being ashore by four, he could be at Belmont for the six o'clock heat three times a week and earlier on weekends. His luck was never too good. The majority of times his earnings covered his losses. Sometimes he lost seriously. But, through hard work and diligence he managed to get by.

There are many things to be found in the Sound: swordfish, bluefish, , flounder, sea-bass, to name a few, as well as the infrequent corpse. It must be remembered that the Sound abuts on the Grand Banks, formerly one of the richest fishing grounds in the world, rivaled only by the herring fields of the North and Baltic seas. Hamburg, they say, grew prosperous on that trade.

One hot day, Skipper was out trolling for sole, which was selling for ten dollars a pound at the fishery, when he had a strike. The fish put up a fight and hauled Skipper to the rail many times, but he fought and fought, and after an hour, nearly prevailed. At the end of that time he spotted the shadowy creature about a hundred feet off-stern, though he could not yet identify it. Suddenly, the fish, feeling itself losing the game and being drawn inexorably toward the hull, made itself seen with a splendid, final, desperate leap- and failing to shake the hook free, fell back into the sea with a thunderous splash.