Lassitude and Longitude

I slid the hook through both halves of his body,
black stuff squirting from the holes
like brake fluid from a busted line.
I watched as he writhed and wriggled as worms do
150 segments expanding and contacting – serenading
the skewer like a mute accordion.

I cast out beyond the bank of reeds
into the cool dark depths where sunken catfish kept.
The muddy bottom of the lake bed
like a basement floor – full of things that crawl.

I thought back to the time when I was ten
watching Houdini’s water torture escape upside-down
from the foot of my bed.
Tony Curtis, the handcuff king
drowning – dangled by a broken ankle.

As the rod tip bowed
and the bait bell clapped
I rose to my feet – head full of rush
and I reeled in the worm
wet and limp, broken at one end.