The Bowl

I know what you are thinking.

The only other living being,
the only thing awake at this hour,
is the fish, just the one, gold,
orange really, big eyes staring,
levitating in the water, held in place
on the desk in a glass bowl
the size of a soccer ball.

You are thinking how bored I must be,
here in this solitary confinement.

The pressure of the room, the office,
as I return his stare, or hers, not sure,
is pushing my head into my spine,
my chest into my throat. The books
on the shelves are closing in,
smothering the room, the space,
thickening the air.

You think you are free out there with your wants
and needs. You get to leave the room.

The heaviness has me glued to the swivel.
My wants and needs travel together,
sleep in the same room, as far apart
as the bed allows. Meet each morning
pop a pod, crumble flakes in this bowl
and proceed with almost no apparent
fulfillment through the day.

You can write this down - say you got it
from your goldfish. Freedom is thought,
and yours are pathetic this evening.

The blank pad winks in agreement.
The room eases up a bit, a sympathy pause -
the Jameson pours itself, the bottle
of Ambien smiles, the pain in my neck
and legs goes away. I can finally
pull my ass out of the chair,
as I switch off the light -

Get some sleep, dream of me in this bowl,
think about changing the water.
See you in the morning.