Every October, our shanties become food
for the flatulent Lagoon; everywhere,
things drinking other things.

We called a meeting, to figure things out.
Confidence is melting, the headlines tell us.
You know what else is melting?

The ocean is overheard saying, If only
I had arms—windmills would be waterfans.
Its ancestors never harbored such

subversive thoughts. A voice from the back
insists, things different now. Oh god,
this is like being cooked alive, the fish say.

You know what else this is like?
Calling a meeting to figure things out,
and finding yourselves outnumbered.

Image Credits: Photo by Collins okoh CC BY-SA 4.0