Come spring I am starved for a fix.
I tremble like an addict
fumbling with my head kit:
blood knots, surgeon’s loops, clinch knots,
longing to get bent, baked, jacked up,
amped to find the perfect jolt
from a perfectly drifted nymph
by a winter-starved trout
that travels through my fly-line
to the tip of my five-weight
and down the shaft of the rod
to my wrist
where it explodes the pleasure center
of my amygdala
like a hit of crack cocaine.