Billy and John fancied
themselves master fisherman

Their wives considered them
masters of nothing, 
other than drinking beer

Billy and John would be
the first to say
it ain’t even fishing 
without suds

So, Tuesday morning,
on the lake, 
the snick of opening cans,
partly cloudy, chance of rain

Billy and John,
lines in the water,
complaining about the game,
no bites

They felt a tingle,
like static electricity,
a shadow fell over them

A perfectly circular,
perfectly silent UFO
hung in the air,
twenty feet above them

First time either of them
had dropped a can of beer 
or been probed in 
a bright, featureless room,
surrounded by the little ones,
while the tall one,
the one who looked
like an angry
praying mantis,
watched

Later that morning,
Billy and John, 
the snick of opening cans,
feeling a bit disoriented
(too many beers?),
lines in the water,
complaining about the game,

still no bites