Man, busy after work, scoops two goldfish out of the pea green pond.
Drives home to put them in a large skull shaped bowl
with castle, stone bridge, marble rock inside.
Time streches its long arm - hours, days, weeks -
until one day, by means of a wayward elbow,
the bowl fall to the ground, detonating, fragments of skull everywhere.
The fish writhe out of water, struggle and gulp for last air.
They are scooped up and flushed down the toilet
thrust into the ocean of the suburban sewage system
to die without any form of contractual agreement.
2 comments:
Many years ago I wrote a poem (in fact before you were born – Christ! I feel old) in which I talked about a bus’s need for petrol only to have my far-too-clever-for-his-own-good smart fart of a best friend point of out a bus’s fuel of choice was in fact diesel. I mention this because I have to tell you that goldfish don’t live in the sea. They can survive in saltwater for a few minutes at best. Guppies and mollies can be converted but apparently not goldfish. Other than that I quite like this piece.
Easy. They now came from a pond.
Far-too-clever-comment, helpful in accuracy of the poem. And now the added bite that to the keen reader, the fish are actually killed in the end.
Thank you for keeping me on my toes and checking my ignorance.
;)
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