Praetorian: (adj) Corruptible, Fraudulent

I hate fishing.

I've spent a good amount of time
Sifting mire through my fingers,
Finding my fingernails beneath.

Standing in the cold, wet veil
That smothers the ground, the lake.
Watching him in his rubber waders.

Watching my breath stretch,
Winding itself around bare trees.
He is so much taller than I am.

But he looks nothing like my father.
And I am not that small age anymore.
I would prefer wandering through the fall foliage.

The woods are full of running and games,
Piles of leaves for jumping, light filtering,
Projecting scenes of halcyon youth.

He seems too serious, sedentary,
Motionless, save for a flicking wrist,
Save for the flashing eyes.

He's thin, hungry, determined.
But he doesn't know how to fish.
Neither do I.

He just stands there like Father Time,
Rooted in the rotted lake-bed.
But each time I turn back to the trees

He gives the hook a little pull,
My head jerks upward,
Our eyes meet.

I am somewhere between those two places.
But it is starting to get cold.

And I need to eat.