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Moments like this make cabin fever even tougher
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I’ve got the fever, and it isn’t for Pringles,
My line-towing finger trembles and tingles,
And the thought that real fishing is two months away,
Makes each passing second feel like a day.
I’ve looked o’er my tackle, time and again,
Obsessive-compulsive to the point when,
I start naming tubes – there’s Jim and there’s Ted –
And dressing them up with helmets of lead.
An army of metal lures stands at attention,
Spinnerbaits, spoons, and others to mention,
Ready for battle with treble hooks gleaming,
To enter the waters where big fish are teeming.
The jigs and the crankbaits sing in a chorus,
“It won’t be that long until spring is before us.”
Their tune it is festive, quite bright and merry,
But my calendar quiets them – as it’s still February.
Like some bad August picnic, the room’s all abuzz,
I track down the source in a pile of fuzz,
From under some feathers, some hair and chenille,
Comes a noise that most certainly cannot be real.
My wooden box hums of life from within,
And the buzzing roars up to a wild din,
With one eye barely open, I flip up the lid,
And the creatures burst out from where they were hid.
Green and grey gnats escape in a cloud,
Feather-winged grasshoppers twitter aloud,
Foam ants march in twos but from me no hurrahs,
As a black deer hair cricket chirps out his applause.
To restore some order to the surreal situation,
I hurriedly chant a fishing invocation,
“Get back in this box, right now I say,
Or you’re the first fly I’ll offer on opening day.”
The bees make a beeline, the mayflies fly straight,
Into the box, to avoid being bait,
For a humpheaded bluegill or big rainbow trout,
That now sit next to me, with a large eelpout.
Around a green table with chips piled high,
With a pike and two crappie and a wary walleye,
We play Texas hold ‘em ‘til quarter to four,
When the walleye goes all-in, then heads to the door.
The pike takes the money, the crappies go home,
The bluegill and eelpout drive back to Nome,
To their little farm pond, where they have a good time,
And as the trout exits, he throws me a dime.
“It’s not a quarter, but call someone who cares,”
And laughs as he flips his way down the stairs.
Things are just getting stranger, if they weren’t before,
When a loud knock-Knock-KNOCKING sounds on the door.
“Police! Open Up!” Comes the call from outside,
My instinct tells me that it’s time to hide,
But just like a fool, I look out the front pane,
At that exact point, I feel my sanity wane.
Through the door bursts a muskie, in policeman disguise,
With a long toothy grin, and food in her eyes.
And in their reflection I’m no longer me,
Just a sucker alone, all I can do is flee.
I swim through the house, through the kitchen and den,
I go upstairs and downstairs and upstairs again.
With the muskie still gaining, I leap from the roof,
Her breath on my neck, when magically – POOF!
The muskie is gone, also every fin,
My shiny scales turn back into skin,
I once again hear a sharp buzzing sound,
And sigh with the fear of another go-round.
Of singing tackle and flies on the wing,
And poker with gamefish or some scary thing,
But the noise isn’t insects, or imminent harm,
It’s the incessant buzz of my morning alarm.
I rub my eyes clear, and shake my head clean,
Of all of the things I thought I had seen,
But it’s back to reality, to start a new week,
I step over my dog, but he can now somehow speak.
“You think you’ve got it bad? You think you’ve got the blues?
Try waiting for eight months, and paying those dues.
For a tiny little window to chase birds on the wing,
Your fever’s minor - mine’s a horrible thing.”
“With you it’s always the same, this time of year,
Perpetual winter, such an irrational fear,”
I smile ‘cuz he’s right, as he stands on all fours,
Saying “Now time for my walk, out in…our outdoors.”
