The Goldfish

The steak knife's blade
screams, as it fails to pop
the bubble encompassing
this small town, where
I wander the streets like a goldfish
lost in its fishbowl.

I despise plastic seaweed,
whose inability to change frightens me
more than grinning great white sharks,
gracefully traveling the seas.

I have only experienced the taste of salt water in
small doses, teasing my tongue, and I long
for the wailing fire alarm my eyes send out
when salt water tickles them
every day of my life.

I don't need a diving board to jump into
the ocean – not a blink, not a word, just
a seamless transition: a sole piece
of paper, afloat, holds the key
for little goldfish lost to find its way to the sea.