It floats tonight
inside my head,
arousing insomnia,
phobias, stubborn bottled-
ketchup boredom
despite my investment in pills.
By morning it’s become
a golden, lumpy,
bulbous branchiate—fancy-fin pet
in a rotund bowl, aloof
droopy-eyed feline fish.
For decades now I’ve hushed
its muffled murmurs as if
each grumble were
a pinscher growling at the mailman
or a river overflowing
its levee, washing away
my quay. But the bowl fish,
stressing about its aerator kaput
in yet another blackout,
kisses the meniscus open-mouthed,
gills paddling, wondering, Will
today’s mail be spam and bills
or language from a friend?
Kenton K. Yee’s recent poems appear (or will soon) in Plume Poetry, Threepenny Review, Constellations, TAB Journal, I-70 Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Terrain.org, Sugar House Review, McNeese Review, and Rattle, among others. Kenton holds a PhD from UCLA and law and business degrees from Stanford. He writes from Northern California.
