Buoy On The Lake

I’m usually fishing by now, out on the pier with some bait—on the pier with a drink—casting out     and waiting. The buoy in the water bounces up and down and I know my bait’s live: it moves and “pops” and plays. I usually catch fish around this time of day, but instead of being on the lake—instead of sipping scotch whiskey early in the morning—I’m hunting with two kings and a pack of wolves are following us. I see them fight and drool, bark and yip, and I know trouble follows: I see their haunting eyes. I should’ve gone fishing, but fishing’s gotten boring.