WATERMARK

I am wearing someone else’s shoes.
I stole them, but they were left right
out on the street. They are plastic pink
ballet slippers, stiff as hardened leather.

These shoes fit, but they are are made
of poison. Someone has neglected to fill
the aquarium; goldfish are swimming,
gasping, in air. I receive a threatening

note, in code. What is, or is not, real?
These people are merely ghosts. So many
languages I do not speak. Even if I were
to set out now to learn on a magic

boat of talent and time, some would die
before I could reach them. A voice speaks,
clearly: This is about a child. This is not
about comfort. This is about sadness.

I want to see the mountains. I want to see
the glacier. I am totally outclassed.