Small Fry (Poetry)

I’ve caught a poem — tied it down
nailed the words into a line
the white-browed paper bears my frown
as thoughts lie captured one more time

The hunt’s been long — each word slipped by
so small and furtive in the night
I know their shapes — how quiet and sly
they creep about — avoid the light

But like some trapper in the wood
I set my old and simple snare
and waited — for the trail seemed good
the rhyme came tiptoe — unaware

that there was anything amiss ...
I pounced upon this common verse
no rare or legendary fish
but I admit I’ve landed worse.