ManicDDaily

In the Soup

The soup at the mouth of the river
is–broadly speaking–vegetable,
despite its heavy oil content,
(not fish chowder, not
bouillabaisse).

The ocean at the underside of the plastic wrap
has not preserved
its freshness.

Whales within range
of sonar waves
swim like the punch drunk
if the punch drunk were puppet-strung
to fall up.

Whales, falling up, surface
too fast; fail.

Even whales that get down again
after their falls up,
face failing.
A swallow
of plastic wrap
is a surfeit
for a whale.

The soup at the mouth of
the river
is like one of those dishes
made of leftovers that, constantly added to,
never diminishes–
octane a la king
heavy metal tettrazini
nitrate roulade
petro-chili goulash bisque
(sometimes with rice).

There are ever more buckets
of it, tons
and megatons.

Maybe as many
as there are drops
of plastic-wrapped
ocean.

Certainly more
than tears shed
for dead whales.

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Here’s another sort of drafty poem riffing on Kerry O’ Connor’s prompt to use a book title for a poem; I am posting this one for the Real Toads Open Forum.  The photo, modified by me, is subject to a common use license–originally made by Whit Wells (Wwells14).