The Classroom

To the fish, I ask,

"What are your dreams?"

and they sit silently in the water.

So I wait for them to crowd around

the question---poking, and nibbling.

I know if I pull the hook away from them too soon,

they won't jump for it.  I know

if I pull too hard, the hook

won't set, the bait wasted. So I wait.

The anxiousness pulls like the water.

The fish kick against the current,

keeping close to the question,

staring at it, as it floats in front of them.

Then one hits it hard.

I pull back, jerking,

trying to set the hook.

The fish thrashes

and pulls, stretches and flails.

Its eyes flash

in the water, its body catching light,

but then it's gone.

Then, they are all gone.

But these were my first, and the hook

I used wasn't strong enough to hold.

Those fish will leave the school, move from stream

to river, from river to lake, from lake to ocean,

but one will still have the hook,

my hook, caught

in its mouth.

Author's Note

So, this one I wrote a long time ago when I thought I'd land a job as a prestigious creative writing teacher, smoking jacket and all. It's a bit... schmaltzie....