A Story

I'm not sure where it came from, but here's a little story:


Once, there was a little house

(Well...a shack)

By the ocean.

In it,

Lived a very old man

And a fairly young goldfish.

They were basically friends.

The walls had once

Been brightly striped:

Thick blue, thin white.

Now,

It was barely two shades

Of gray.

Not that either of them minded, really.

The old man hadn't cared about

Such things in years

And the fish was colorblind.

Every morning, the old man

Made coffee and Pop-Tarts 

And almost went for a walk.

The fish noticed the days he actually stepped outside.

The rest of his day belonged

To the newspapers that

Were stacked about the house.

They were from decades ago.

Years and towns he thought he remembered

Covered every surface.

They smelled old.

The fish liked to watched his

Frantic movements

As he read, and cut, and scribbled.

He'd show the fish when he thought he'd found something big,

A clue, a connection.

Waving the page, he'd grin and ask what it thought.

The fish seldom had an opinion, but liked feeling involved.

The old man would pin important clippings to the

Wall, and mark the connections with

Yarn.

When he needed to sleep, he'd turn out

The lamp and slump over where he sat,

Because his bed was full of newspaper.

Sometimes, he forgot to feed the fish.

Next to the fish bowl

The old man had spread out

Some crossword puzzles.

They were mostly empty

Except for a few

Wrong answers.

The fish wished it knew how to use a pen.