I’m not that keen on fish,
except the battered kind.
I don’t mind it with chips
or salad in the bake
of midgesummer,
chipshop style, sizzled bites
of white meat.
It’s mainly seasonal I think,
my taste for marine life.
Or more likely nocturnal,
when oven belies a vacant look,
hunger dangling at the end
of a day’s short story line.
So, I reel it in.
Early neon brings in evening,
and up the road moths mooch
’round lamposts, gyroscope
in figure of after eights,
half knocked out they swim
in that frying smell, filleted flesh
topped and tailed at “Joe’s”,
cooked to end up something
vaguely ocean-like.
So, it’s wrapped up.
It might be a thought that passes
through the cleverest cod,
if only we pretended to be pirahna
we wouldn’t suffer this fate
without biting back, even the midges
do that atleast. Last night,
I heard a cry in the chipshop,
just wishful thinking though,
the cook had burnt his finger,
but I swear the cod lept.
