Otherworld, Underworld, Prayer Porch. David Bottoms

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      The Grocer’s Tackle Box

       Not all dreams need to be realized.

      PATTI SMITH

      My obsession with gear

      comes from a grandpa who rarely caught a fish

      but kept in his tackle box one of every lure

      he ever sold in his store.

      I was especially drawn to the potbellied Bombers,

      deep runners meant for pike and walleye,

      but also the rainbow Rattlebugs, the pink doll flies trailing

      yellow boas

      loved by crappie and bass,

      and the speckled plastic worms,

      rubber frogs and tadpoles, the fat, tangerine Hula Poppers.

      He kept his tackle box behind his cash register, tucked

      behind cartons of bills and tax receipts.

      As a boy I could walk by the Coke box and feel its draw.

      Someday, he kept saying, he’d take me fishing

      but never did. That was okay.

      To prove the promise sometimes outweighs the fish,

      he’d often let me open that box and thumb