At three a.m. my goldfish, Anne,
Slept floating, wide eyed, in the middle of her bowl. She looked angry when I woke her with the light
And swam in small, tight circles.
When she spoke to me
I couldn’t hear her,
But I can read lips.
You’ve come to put your soul
Upon a piece of paper with a pen
And tuck it carefully away
Within that drawer again.
It will not help.
You’re really headed for a fall.
You simply are not making any progress
In this life at all.
I threatened her with the garbage disposal
But Anne was relentless.
Last time around I made some mistakes too.
Once I broke the dearest heart
And in the process broke my own heart too.
My selfish dreams caused my poor soul to weep
And I had trouble getting any sleep.
This time I’m forced to spend my days alone.
A glass bowl on a fool’s desk is the place that I call home. I think in rhymes. I cannot write a decent poem.
You may pay attention or just give my words a shrug, But keep on as you have been
And next time you’ll be a slug.
I couldn’t stand being lectured to so harshly
So I snapped off the light and stomped from the room. Anne went back to gently hovering
Above her multi-colored marbles.