The things we see our reflections in
have no time to reflect and are not things.
A reflection is seen. Of what? Not me
until I comb my toupe, am thrown for
a loop I can only see when still.
I am never still, but my shed skins are.
I put on a snakeskin suit
and leave the driving to them. It's cute
to be lead around by the dead.
I must be a deadhead. But even the dead
die and I refuse to go fishing
and so become fish. It is my sign.
Better to be a big fish in a shrinking pond
than those with rods and hooks.
I can no longer eat and must be eaten.
The drought makes me an easy catch.
As the hooks sent from the boats sink in,
I notice the fishers too busy seeing their reflection
in what's left of the water to look me in the eyes.
Well, you might as well cook me.
But after being photographed alongside of me,
you throw me back. Afraid of what I'd do
inside of you?