Fish-Eye View

Not everyone’s so lucky.

Long before the world drew up its shades,

we gathered at the table, trembling,

and drew lots. A friend of mine,

who washed his hands before and after

every single meal, became an earthworm.

One, a teller of white lies,

now swings his guts

in some damp forest, limb to limb,

spinning his web. He’s looking for

a fly who was my neighbor

in the mist before: always annoying

with his busy drone in my good ear.

That guy who hit on anything in skirts

is baying at the moon, far from the pack,

lost in the howl of his desire.

One girl who favored woolen sweaters

has become a moth in her own closet.

But I’m sitting pretty in Des Moines,

in this bright mall, one of a tank

of ritzy goldfish. Not so bad,

with easy money all around me,

and a gilded life for me to spend.