No props to Junior! Get it right next time, will you?
from a young boy walking a dog; overheard while walking along my street

He's only seven to Martin's nine,
watching his brother's hands on the rod;
his cast well-aimed and sure,
hitting the spot he pointed at with ease.

"Junior" feels outclassed already,
wincing at the scorn in Martin's voice,
aching from the lack of understanding.
Why can't he say it doesn't matter?

He's tried the cast six times already -
Martin's one step from taking the rod away.
Surely the fish are not the point here?
He just wants some time with his brother.

Frustration bubbles up and he nearly
shouts his anger to the sky.
One more dig, and the next one's going
across your face, leave me alone.

But it hits the water with a satisfying slap;
the lure bobs out of sight, then back.
"Hey, well done!" and as Martin smiles,
sudden joy cements this new skill.