I have a can of fish flakes on
The table there.  White and square.  Parson
A half-parson is that fits
In my corner
Stacked neatly
Piled high
My chum-sized food store
Freeze-dried little koi gold
Big as a fist can hold
Carcass
Chunks of slivered flesh
And withering
The feel of
A baited shake-down

Piles and piles
of flakes

Wriggling worm
Too heavy
Giddy with the drink of its own
Bottled stacked soiled home
Still now and still wet
With the business of remembering

Shouts more still
Beyond the door
No more digging to be dug
From our desolate tin round

A boy speaks his eulogy
"Love you, Fish."

We wait
Eyes like scaled onions
To the fish tale end
Hoping for a word