The Grandfather Clock

Sometimes I stare at the wall and try to see your face. I focus
beyond the bump of white plaster, beyond
the tick of my grandfather clock, and into the glow
of my own eyes--tired eyes that want to stare no more,
want to feel the loss of evening no more. I see
you---in the frame, somewhere, back in the month of minnows
and Minnesota bass. The day I sat
on rocks near poison oak and Aspen,
I watched you that day.
Your arms scared with winter
hunting, forced the fly rod back and forth
like the arms of my grandfather clock,
the line moved through the air,
and I waited for the buzz of the mosquito and the cool
shade of night when I'd no longer sit
on the edge. When you'd look
away from the folds of this river, and see me,
my fingers slimy with minnows. See me take
the minnows and lead them to the hook-- just like you
showed me: "hook to head,"
but your line moves through the air into the Mississippi
It's then when the night falls to day, and you
vanish with the chime of the clock.