Ted Getzel Works

Youth

I wade waist deep into the swirling sea

Sand runs out from beneath my soles

Brittle sun dried salt cracks

As I flex my thick shoulders

I lean back slightly against the flow

Of the returning broken surf

Gulls guffaw in a frenzied feeding spiral

I hold the rod high above my head

My spine is like a sapling

Strong flexible full of life’s juice

I bend the rod arches

My finger firm upon the line

The weight and bait flick behind me

The glass tube an energized arc

Snaps back and then forward

And when it swings to 11 o’clock

I raise my finger from the monofilament

Rings hiss of off the reel tracing the sinkers flight.

The distance measures my manliness.

There is a splash beneath the gulls

Now one with the sea I wait

For the blues.