trout

he holds them by the mouth
when he carries them home.
they drip water on the sidewalk.
i watch him from my window 
& he doesn't notice me. he's focused 
on putting one foot in front of the other.
his walking stick is glossy 
in the guts of late summer.
it shines just like the scales of the trout.
his fingers turned to hooks. 
rust & all. the word water of the creeks.
once i saw a bear passing through
with her cubs he same stream where he fishes
or maybe that was my forest eyes. 
a mirage of the other self. i am walking
through the water. i am carrying
a trout by the gaping mouth.
we talk every once in awhile. 
the longest was when he needed help
getting his pension. we sat on my porch 
& filled out forms online together.
he asked me, "what happens
if i live longer than the money lasts?"
i did not know what to say. 
i told him, "i'm sorry, i don't know."
then, he laughed to himself.
he said, "i can always keep fishing."
i've seen him sitting on a rock
by the edge of the water. he lives alone
just like me. i only glimpsed in his apartment once.
it is the one above mine. he hangs his clothes
on lines that crisscross his living room. 
his eyes swim like the fish he catches. 
what i want to witness is him pulling
a trout from the water. i wonder if somehow
this is a birth. the mouth turned inside out.
instead i only see him come & go,
trout in his one hand & walking stick
in the other. maybe he thinks of me the same.
the boy with two dogs who carries flowers
in his pockets back to his house.
does he wonder what i do with them?