My sick goldfish

I think my goldfish is dying

His name is Gilly. Imaginative name.

I won’t know ‘till morning if he’s dying

or just has wind.

He just floats on top of the water,

swims down when he sees you,

then floats up again when he stops swimming.

At first I suspected he was bored,

but now the joke’s over and he still floats,

and I know goldfish aren’t that clever, or persistent.

It’s sad to think of Gilly dying –

the last living remnant of a former relationship.

A dying living memory.

Perhaps not the only one, but more real, now.

Maybe some strands of my hair existed at that time too

and bits of my bone marrow

and, or course, my thoughts and memories

constantly renewed, against my will.

Copies made, when older ones fade

Mutant copies, sadder ones.

Poor Gilly – he is blameless though,

an innocent victim of wind…or whatever it is…

An innocent victim of life.

I must cut my hair sometime soon

A bone marrow transplant and electric shock therapy

…might take a while to organise.

17.12.07 12.12