Levy Deckard

With calloused hands, two fisherman slouch
clandestinely spinning threaded glass
from murky shallows
of storm drain deluge
to pseudo-solid sands of cracked concrete.

Their divine watery domain sits beside
the confines of the Richmond Road
bordered by a thronged megachurch
christ has

The hulking concrete, corporate chapel clouds the
smoggy horizon as a sepulcher–not of some now-
distant savior but for the
captains of industrial

The fishermen, I mean, I see them from the stoplight,
every Tuesday at eight pm,
in frames separated by passing cars from my own,
dim yellow twenty-four-hour drive-thru light illuminating
furrowed brows soaked with sweat as
their hands stalk
sudden subtle vibrations.

Green douses my windshield: the
tall one’s rod snaps, his hands
spinning and pulling against
the gradient and away from the
residual runoff
as my accelerator revs,

Pushing me down Richmond Road
and to our next Tuesday at eight pm
communion when we disapprovingly discover again:
the only fish on Richmond Road are not
on hooks but
in fryers.

Frivolous is the gentle breeze
from Richmond Road traffic brushing
past the anglers’ weathered hands as their
eyes dart to and from
shadows of the world
spinning, and spinning, and praying
that it isn’t as barren, as godless (as if!), as commercial
as the one

Levy Deckard can be found scouring the seamy underbelly of Tech in the hours before dawn. He is a second-year from Lexington, Kentucky studying Economics and Creative Writing. He is interested in foreign policy and the profound.