The Violent Death of Nocte the Fish
I'm not violent by nature, therein lies the problem
but I get myself into such bad situations with fish
that i think I may have finally snapped
but I'll be fine before Mardi Gras
If i don't think about how my life hangs
in the balance following night
Any common murderer would strike at night;
not me, I think that the dark makes itself a problem,
in daylightI see exactly what I've done--see how he hangs
just under the water, a flaky-white par-boiled fish;
fins and tail streaming out like Mardi Gras,
evidence that I've finally snapped
You'd see my guilt in the way I snapped
to attention at the slightest movement at night,
fully two months before Mardi Gras,
So tension-pulled that sleep was a problem,
haunted by apparitions of skeletal ghost fish;
from under white sheets with eyeholes, their little fins hang
The roots in his vse, bone-white, still hang
monument to his death and the day that I snapped
at my dad for trash-talking my fish,
not noticing, O Betta named for Night,
that water from the faucet named hot might be a problem,
He danced his final Mardi Gras.
Two months short of his third Mardi Gras,
I appear at his gallows, ready to hang
the innocent Fighter who was never a problem,
boiled until his swim-belly snapped,
his last thought, "Good night, sweet world, good night!"
or whatever last thought death might bring a fish.
Such was the fate of the poor night-named fish,
struck down by a murderess who figured his death throes for Mardi Gras
antics: "Oh, arent' you happy! Good fish, I'll feed you an extra pellet tonight!"
So I can't deny, I'm ready to hang.
It was only a matter of time 'til I snapped.
And now fish Finnegan faces the 'bad owner' problem.