At five last night, our fish Fishie died. At five this morning,
Rick and I drove our daughter Willa to the Greyhound
to a year learning to survive
on water and air,
among those who knew Thomas.
Home at noon, cleaning our empty fishbowl,
I could swear I saw Willa in a soap bubble, lying down like
last night when she should have been packing,
saying she was “relishing a last soft bed moment,”
I didn’t mean to drop the bowl
or cut myself on the broken glass.