Prose Poem or Flash Nonfiction?

From my book, Compañero. You decide. The book was published as poetry, but........

Does it matter? We write. We write. Happy new year.

Fishing

Surf the web directory for old friends lost to time, too many ink scratched changes, maybe the misdeeds of youth. Stare at the screen, wait for names to pry into the archives of mind. Like first time fishing and alone, the seas polluted, massive swells nearly lapping the dock, and only a fly rod and a rusty worm to cast. Not being able to spell makes it worse. Too many false nibbles on the line. Imagine, there are forty-six Joe Schneiders in California. Each country of origin, its own twisted spelling that boggles. Elbows and hands hurling hopes as far as possible, dial each combination of numbers that promise taxidermy worthy marlin. No, I am not a creditor seeking to collect an ancient debt, and yes, I am sorry I woke you at eight o’clock in the evening. Nibbles on my line, rotting teeth of starvation minnows. Yesterday, I finally netted what I had long sought. Ben, lost to expatriate miles down crumpled biked roads of Vietnam. We remember each other’s laughter immediately. Something deep is stirred, liking images of myself as a boy, threading a blinding blue sardine through my first adult sized hook, understanding just who I was. After we are done talking, I gaze again at the screen, can think of no more names to cast. Sometimes, it is best to put down your pole, let go of the game, dive into the waves, feel the sting of bitter salt in your eyes, catch the rainwater in your mouth, and start to live again.