Fish out of water.

Fish out of water.

 

Myself and the fish converse:

    “I’m a fish out of water. Let me swim,” he whispered one fine afternoon.

“No pools are open today, confines of covid. How about a bath instead?” 

Raising eyebrows high, hoping it will satisfy.

    “Ok, that will do for now, but I need a pool or the ocean if we are going to survive.”

 

Soon the bath didn’t cut it and the fish was speaking once more.

     “Give me water, I need water,”

I sigh, 

“How much water does one fish need?”

     “Enough to engulf me… and you.” 

“Me, why me? What did I do?”

 

The fish did not speak again until I stood by the pool.

    “Come on, dip your toes in. I’m here, let go. Swim, swim, swim.”

Water swirls around me, centring my soul.

    “Let me up, let me up, I’m drowning in despair,”

I huff,

“Your a tattooed fish on my foot, now shut the hell up, I’m swimming here.”