Fish

Fish

You don’t move
you red distorted blob
and I with my manuscript
don’t either.
Hard to say which of us
is more alive
in mind, body and soul,
I in my air, or you
looking through the glass
at the distorted, motionless
blob with the pen.
Only I could figure it into
a competition
or imagine this poem
might be better in French.
You water-laugh
no doubt
at my arrogance,
knowing
just because I feed you,
let alone scribble poems,
doesn’t mean
I deserve to win.