Poetry
While Some Get Free, Some Get Screwed
Jon Powell
After the fish died, first one,
then the other a few weeks later,
and after the unceremonial
burials in the garbage can out back,
the ten gallon tank, pump off,
sat with water stagnating,
escaping molecule by molecule
another few weeks. Before
the ceramic yellow frog,
for years poised to leap
from the parti-colored gravel
on the tank's bottom, was
once again exposed, was once
again undrowned, as if evolving
from sea to land creature
(he now sits on my CPU),
I drained the water, hoisted
tank, gravel, and pump
out to the garbage can place.
Bagged in black plastic,
it, and the hoary nations of still
remaining microscopic life,
still clinging-to-hope hordes,
waited for public service
unaware, unknowing, unknown.