In every city river
there’s atleast one old fish,
its pearlescent colour viewed
in peripheral circles,
never quite seen in a summer;
hidden in those sways.
And in every city,
there’s atleast one person,
their profile once recognised,
somewhere in a subway
of someone’s mind.
In an old boot,
an old fish dies.
Somehow, it’s a sadder image
than the lost ones,
those hidden in the sways
unable to surface swim.
