Foolish Fish

I’m not a
foolish fish.
I see your
hook
with its fat
deadly temping
morsel.

I spy the
still fakery
of your
vulgar, brightly
coloured
hand twisted
lure.

I trace out
the thin
line like
a highway
racing to
where you
stand.

I see all
your tricks and
feel the soft
tugging
motions that
wiggle the
worm.

I lie still
and deep,
skulking calmly,
waiting for
the fate of
the weaker
fellow.

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