everything's right.

My fish has a dirty bowl.
It's needed cleaning for a while,
but I don't relish taking him out to do so;
watching him wriggle between cupped palms
unsure or unwilling
refusing to let me take care of him.

Sometimes, like Betty, I convince myself
the world doesn't have my best interests at heart.
I can't be perfect, so I can't be better
(that follows, right?)
and I fight the hands that hold me.

Denial is violent, like a seizure,
lashing out, thrashing to get out
hoping to be let go, let alone
(even if it means swallowing your tongue).
You can't argue with a seizing person.

He cleans the bowl with the time honored Clorox blend of
blood and smiles, sacrifice and hugs,
faith and hope
(they both have those, though).

And I'm left wondering, as always,
why would I have ever told myself
happiness wasn't in the cards?
-11/06/08