Tuesday, December 31, 2013

To My Fish, Who Killed Himself

Its said of fish in many books: 
Their memories are small. 
It's clear without lean cats or hooks
They've got no woes at all. 

My  beta sought to beat those odds
And shed his scaly gown. 
The bowl he flees, the counter trods, 
And in the air did drown. 

He did not seek a found'ring shrink
Nor from his problems hide. 
In my kitchen never did I think
To witness icthycide. 

It's clear from his last desperate lunge
The ironies he'd crave: 
The fish who in the air did plunge
But flushed in wat'ry grave. 

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