Maybe I’m just the fish
David spoke of in jest
who asks other fish
how the water is today
but is met with empty eyes.
I too grow old
but I don’t even wear the bottoms
of my trousers rolled.
and my hair keeps growing
in the tomb.
The nightingale won’t sing for me—enraged, I threw a rock at its nest
because Dylan told me to.
I’ve trampled on daffodils
to test the Divine
and left every lock virginal
scared even to try.
I would gladly be Leda
instead of the swan
gladly write sonnets
in neatly wrapped rhyme.
But I’m not ‘ole Billy—
these poems won’t live on
and yours, too, will dissolve
in the acid of time.
Urns would only comfort
if I could look at what’s left
watch the people I know
gather ‘round, rest.
If I could peer on the ashes
and create metaphors
about fires burned out long before.
Even when I think on you
I’d rather be bootless—
I’d rather scream at deaf heaven
And ask why.
But Death will begrudgingly take me
and will moan about carrying
such sizable burdens.
So it goes
into my spoiled liver
and waits there
stacked and bare.
It kicks off its shoes
puts up its feet
nestles in tight
and laughing
turns out the light.
***
Nick Hertzog is a writer from the Colorado Springs area.
