FISH by John Grey

FISH

White and black, red and yellow,
colors, on their best behavior,
swim about in a garden pond.
I scatter food across the surface
and feasting creates momentary turmoil,
a surface of gulping mouths,
before everything's consumed
and serenity returns.
David died. I now have his fish bowl,
more of a miniature aquarium really
with pumps, fake coral, even a castle,
for lionheads and bubble eyes to slither through.
The constant movement closes around me,
revives the heart, tempers the grief.
Fish lead such short lives but,
in their relentless grace, endless circling,
it feels as if they go on forever.
The phone rings. I have visitors.
I see friends on the street, in the coffee shop.
Everyone remains active, doing what they have to.
But they don't rotate through a pond or a bowl for me.
I can't just lose myself in watching.
When I'm with people, I have to be accounted

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and the Round Table. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and Hollins Critic.