A Poem, Boxes and Flying Fish

Boxes and Flying Fish
The smoke snails before my eyes,
And fades in a jellyfish
cloud above my head,
I squint catching two
friends’ alligator smiles.

Not mine.

I saw the fish that
fly on the Indian ocean,
Exocoetidae,
the mist from the cable laying
ship bounced on the water.
disrupting.

I have no goal.

I ran the race with
creaking crab knees,
tumbled lifeless as a shell on a mattress,
while the ferry
sailed from the mainland to the island,
and sweat beads dried on my forehead.
Salt crusting.

They crush me.
Whales wrestling
shrimp getting crushed
I work.

Now I smoke and think of experience
dreading them.
I work within a circuitboard plugging in cables that overpower others,
and retire to a box with a four portioned box for dinner,
while action movies glow from a small blue glowing box I mistake for entertainment.

A mountain.

Stale smoke.
Sitting in a shark
cage smoking section.
Boxed.
A flying fish escapes
in the air.

The smoke exits his mouth, as he thinks of stale flying fish near a ship.