In this familiar red room,
favored for that falling into winter
time of hibernation,
I can easily imagine myself
as a dark, blacker than black
full enough to slumber
when all the world
holds tenderness and possibility.
But there is another
orange thing to consider:
another being that lives and breathes
and has quite an attitude
for a goldfish.
Most fish tanks radiate calm
or unusual colors and varied shapes,
sunken treasure chests, soothing
constant bubbling water sounds
that most people seem to find pleasing.
Since I spend a good deal of time
in this cozy sanctuary,
this is pure speculation, not poetry:
this fish has anger issues,
the restless resurfacing
the flash of fins, tail, and fury,
scattering the very ground and gravel
in futile effort to get past
the glass of her existence.