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Tropical Fish
Orange in black,
clean lines and smooth flow,
in spirals and curls the fish go.
Pauses, and jump.
Dances of silver from the pump
to ripple the surface,
the mirror above.
Smooth glass walls, cold,
in warm salty sea.
A cage for me set with coral friends.
A dead lump of plastic
that pretends it's a shipwreck.
The same green plant,
white slimy gravel ground,
I swim, and smell,
and hear your muffled sound,
as I move round and round,
and round,
and round.
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