Sardine Tin
Though the hot-dog failed to bait crustaceans, it seduced an expensive fly-fishing vest; it’s mesh exterior caught on the wire cage of an old crab trap. Vivian, knee-deep in marsh, hemmed by sedge and palmetto, cut the fabric free and brought his treasure to shore. Cross-legged on an oak stump, he examined his trouvaille. Rubbed his thumb over the tag. Durable straps. Water Bladder. Ten pockets plump with possibility. My man’s gotta have a wallet in here. Vivian cracked his knuckles, eager for the rummage. Unzipped the first cavity. Silver bodkins. Shiny, without rust. Mama will like these. Pliers and line clippers. Insect repellent. Bobbin holders. Castille soap. Come on man. I know you have a blade. He wanted a hatchet to add to his knife collection. Vivian unzipped the last pocket slowly, prolonging the unknown. Please God let there be some money or a Case Trapper. He reveled in those ephemeral flickers of opportunity, yet, he remained grateful when he pulled out a sardine tin. Knew better than to wallow over chance.
