The Fisherman

I see you under every baseball cap, grinning, beer in hand, suntanned, burned or pale, depending on the season, strong chest, strut like a cock.

You, who took my heart; or I gave it away, doesn't matter; it or part of it is gone.  Retrieving it hasn't been easy.  You hide away in plain sight.  Every cap is yours, every fishing boat along the Pacific where I sun now has you at the bow, reeling in the catch, woman or fish.

How many trophies have you?  Isn't your stock full enough?  Each day you throw out the net, entice the big ones with your bait, your promises, throw out the insignificant ones with barely a thought.  And then after admiring your catch, you gut them, eat the viable parts and toss the scraps back, remnants no one wants.

I've been gathering those scraps you tossed back for years, reassembling them into me or what I thought was me.  Finally, I am complete.  Not the same version of me, though.  I can't be.  Scars are left from the patching up.  Some are thick still.  Some have faded.  All have left a phantom sting that burns when I see every grin under every baseball cap.  The sting that keeps me here, in place, not moving, safe, far from the net.