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Dealing with Defeat

 A boy, summer crew cut,

brown eyes, freckles, his bike

resting against the tree,

casts his line.

The hook with its red and white

plastic float catches on a branch.

He pulls hard right, left, the rod

whipping back and forth,

each tug setting the hook deeper.

He leans the rod against the tree,

wraps the line around his hand

hoping to pull down the branch.

The line hurts his fingers.

He tries to climb but the branches

are beyond his reach.

 “Damn!” He digs his pocket knife

with its two blades,  black handle

from his jeans, hesitates, then cuts

the line.

At home he says,

“The fish weren’t biting.”