The Fish

As soon as the elderly waiter

placed before me the fish I had ordered,

it began to stare up at me

with its one flat, iridescent eye.



I feel sorry for you., it seemed to say,

eating alone in this awful restaurant

bathed in such unkindly light

and surrounded by these dreadful murals of Sicily.



And I feel sorry for you, too—

yanked from the sea and now lying dead

next to some boiled potatoes in Pittsburgh—

I said back to the fish as I raised my fork.



And thus my dinner in an unfamiliar city

with its rivers and lighted bridges

was graced not only with chilled wine

and lemon slices but with compassion and sorrow



even after the waiter removed my plate

with the head of the fish still staring

and the barrel vault of its delicate bones

terribly exposed, save for a shroud of parsley.