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The Bait Shop

The bait shop was Green and worn with age. The ancient wheelbarrow Nestled beside it outside Like a last, clinging friend. The water below the pier Was an odd sky brown, And everyday was paper white. The fresh and light wooden windows Of the shop were ripped off Either from a move or God knows what… No one ever used the one-dimensional bait shop Other than to gaze at it. It is a relic of my grandfathers, Made by Him, And found by me like a madman Wheedling away treasure from the chest So I can sit here, and gaze at the One-by-one foot bait shop, Which hangs like everything else: Unfinished.

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Gene Williamson

Date: 4/4/2009 6:44:00 PM

Matt, so many live one-dimensional lives, unfinished like the baitshop, flat, like a stage on which they appear behind the floodlights, blinded to the world beyond. I love your poem. -gene.

Nathaniel Köhp

Date: 4/3/2009 4:43:00 PM

Like John said, the description here is captivating. The scene reminds me a lot of Brighton, weirdly. A very sweet reminder. I love the last word here "unfinished" a very clever ending. Maybe the Bait Shop isn't the only thing. Maybe we just never learn the rest of what happens. Well done indeed!

John Weber

Date: 4/1/2009 8:26:00 AM

I enjoy your descriptive style here, Matt! Excellent verb choices throughout as well. Most importantly, I feel a connection here to your ancestors, and your longing to understand more about a bygone era in your collective past. Well written! Warm regards, John.