Poet as Goldfish in a Pet Store
Posted: 22 Oct 2019, 09:38
V2:
Poet as Goldfish in a Pet Store
All day I make my rounds, sweeping
the water into eddies
as kids and their mothers bounce in
from the sidewalk,
the kids as eager as finches
on the first warm day of spring,
chatting and nodding their little heads.
The shop is as colorful
as a birthday:
canaries,
red beaks,
orange legs...
A girl dazzled by a clown fish
has tadpole eyes like mine
and studies anemones
as they extend their arms
to the glass.
"Careful! Don't touch!"
yaks a bird
as a boy plunges his hand
into my tank.
How can I enter their world
except by making it up?
How do I leave my mark?
I can make a fuss, throw a fit,
swirl the waters
with a furious autograph…
but will I leave behind statues
or lasting poems?
For a few moments maybe
a child will remember me, a poet
as anonymous as any goldfish,
fading in the dusk
as the store lights dim,
the door jangles shut.
V1:
Poet as Goldfish in a Pet Store
All day I make my rounds, sweeping
the water into eddies
as kids and their mothers bounce in
from the sidewalk,
the kids as eager as finches
on the first warm day of spring,
chatting and nodding their little heads.
The shop is as colorful
as a birthday: canaries,
red beaks, orange legs...
One girl dazzled by a clown fish
has tadpoles eyes like mine--and studies
the anemones reaching out to her,
touching their long arms to the glass.
"Careful! Don't touch!"
yaks one bird
as a boy plunges his hand into my tank.
Round and round I go
but I can never understand
how the class vanishes into the air
as they leave the shop,
turning right—towards where?
Does the world end there?
Do their parents get to choose
their offspring the way
their little ones choose
a golden retriever,
a red-spotted frog, a tuxedo cat,
a crowned iguana?
How can I enter their world
except by making it up?
I have the same question
as any other goldfish or poet:
How do I leave my mark?
I can make a fuss, throw a fit,
swirl the waters
as if writing a furious
autograph,
but will I leave behind statues
or lasting poems?
For a few moments maybe
a child will remember me, a poet
as anonymous as any goldfish,
fading in the dusk
as the store lights dim,
the door jangles shut.
Poet as Goldfish in a Pet Store
All day I make my rounds, sweeping
the water into eddies
as kids and their mothers bounce in
from the sidewalk,
the kids as eager as finches
on the first warm day of spring,
chatting and nodding their little heads.
The shop is as colorful
as a birthday:
canaries,
red beaks,
orange legs...
A girl dazzled by a clown fish
has tadpole eyes like mine
and studies anemones
as they extend their arms
to the glass.
"Careful! Don't touch!"
yaks a bird
as a boy plunges his hand
into my tank.
How can I enter their world
except by making it up?
How do I leave my mark?
I can make a fuss, throw a fit,
swirl the waters
with a furious autograph…
but will I leave behind statues
or lasting poems?
For a few moments maybe
a child will remember me, a poet
as anonymous as any goldfish,
fading in the dusk
as the store lights dim,
the door jangles shut.
V1:
Poet as Goldfish in a Pet Store
All day I make my rounds, sweeping
the water into eddies
as kids and their mothers bounce in
from the sidewalk,
the kids as eager as finches
on the first warm day of spring,
chatting and nodding their little heads.
The shop is as colorful
as a birthday: canaries,
red beaks, orange legs...
One girl dazzled by a clown fish
has tadpoles eyes like mine--and studies
the anemones reaching out to her,
touching their long arms to the glass.
"Careful! Don't touch!"
yaks one bird
as a boy plunges his hand into my tank.
Round and round I go
but I can never understand
how the class vanishes into the air
as they leave the shop,
turning right—towards where?
Does the world end there?
Do their parents get to choose
their offspring the way
their little ones choose
a golden retriever,
a red-spotted frog, a tuxedo cat,
a crowned iguana?
How can I enter their world
except by making it up?
I have the same question
as any other goldfish or poet:
How do I leave my mark?
I can make a fuss, throw a fit,
swirl the waters
as if writing a furious
autograph,
but will I leave behind statues
or lasting poems?
For a few moments maybe
a child will remember me, a poet
as anonymous as any goldfish,
fading in the dusk
as the store lights dim,
the door jangles shut.