I’m going to get out of this glass prison if it’s the last thing I ever do,
if I have to leap like a frog or play dead, float golden belly milky eye
up in a Sargasso Sea foul with uneaten food flecks gone to slime.
What a fate—to be dumped into a plastic bag of tap water and won
with a toss of quoits at the fair! If goldfish had shoes with laces,
and a neck, and knew how boy scouts tie knots, I’d hang myself.
That swimming philosopher who claimed life’s a brief journey from
bowl to bowl had it right. The final item on my bucket list is a joy
ride down the plumbing when my jailer gives the toilet handle a tug.
Joe Smith poem
Honoria Starbuck illustration