Goldfish Eulogy
It’s been a month since the goldfish
took his own life
in what I can only describe
as the most dramatic exit
a two-inch fish has ever made.
He’s still on the floor.
I should probably address
the condition of the body.
Most of his scales have fallen off.
Some turned to dust.
What used to be his eyes
are more like a crust now–
I think I can still see one,
but it might be a dust mite.
Hard to say.
My sister wanted to throw him away.
I threw a fit.
He’s my muse, I told her.
Without him, I cannot write.
She stormed off, disgusted.
I find it fascinating, honestly.
I see a skull. Some partial fins.
Whatever was in between
is a mystery now–
just where he ends and where he begins.
I thought he was bigger.
I guess everything shrinks with age.
If I’m going to give him a proper burial at sea,
he’s going to need a eulogy.
I’ve never written one for a fish before,
but here goes:
“‘Twas a sad and dreary day
when Franky finally passed–“
Oh, that’s what I call him now.
He has a name at last.
He didn’t need one when he was alive.
He’d never answer anyways.
“I don’t know what Frank thought
when he decided to take flight.
Mouth to mouth, CPR–
so many things I never tried,
but I was just too amused
by my goldfish’s suicide.”
Drink to Franky’s finless flesh.
Feast on fine sushi in his memory.
After all, how much can be said
in a goldfish’s eulogy?
Actually, I think I’ll leave him there.
Conduct a year-long experiment.
Eleven months before I have to clean again.
Win-win.