Monk Fishing

Shall I go to a place
where monkfish debate
the tensile surface of vapors,
testy and bobbing,
undulations ebbing?

Oh were I a kung fu master
upon the bullet-time wire;
my handsome Hattori Hanzo sword cuts
the sunset like a cantaloupe,
through a hemisphere of brain.

I am not master.
I don’t respond to circadian rhythms,
dances of ovulation or
metabolic cycles.
The heart works and works.
The well remains wet.
Grateful for my wife’s blonde
hair raking my shoulder as
she turns in her sleep.

What then of prophets,
priests and pundits
who with mighty voices
proclaim the sky falls or
rises, he is good and she is evil.

Should I blast the crows
for razing the corn or let peace
settle in the valley?

Should I welcome yellow jackets
to burrow in my yard
with utter impunity?

Should I bless the possums rooting through garbage,
or the deer nibbling antique roses
at every gazebo or creche down the boulevard?

~ Craig Shaffer

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