Monday, April 15, 2019


They used to call me fish.
I have no idea why.
I only know I couldn’t breathe
in my small town;
I wasn’t the only one.

It’s been 35 years since I lived there.
The only thing I really miss
is the fried chicken from Uncle Nicky’s.
I try not to indulge in nostalgia.
I have few illusions.
There was one gathering
a few years after graduation.
It was tragic.
I won’t go into details.
For some people,
high school never ends.

I’ve seen one old classmate since then,
one of my closest friends,
working on campus—
a tradesman who used to be an artist.
Perhaps he is still.

Somehow I’ve heard the occasional rumour.
I know he was married
to one of the most beautiful girls in town,
that he got divorced a few years later,
that he still skateboards.
I know who he was.
I have no idea how.

Perhaps we all stay the same
in all the important ways:
the seeds of our flowering
the wounds that once seemed so deep.
I still have no idea why they called me fish.