The Gate Ajar

There are times even now when I wake up in the presence of one-dimensional guitar gods and beer models that adorn (A word that Rhonda Schuller, english professor and nemesis, shows particular hatred for) my walls with all the flavor of cheap christmas decorations, wishing without ruby slippers for a tornado to take my life and drop it smack in the middle of some yellow-brick adventure. Chachi-deuce, a fighting fish, swims languidly in the bowl that killed his predeccesor while my only other company is the insatiable grumble of my stomach, still recovering from the previous evening's meal at Castle Fun Park down the gated hill. I can see much of the hill from my window should I open the blinds to better nourish the single surviving frawn of the palm tree I bought at Home Depot for eleven dollars. House guests remark tirelessly about the view of Mount Baker from our balcony; the farmlands below and the distant green line of Washington's forests. I see the power lines.

I haven't cleaned the fish bowl since Chachi's arrival. He seems to be comfortable in the filth, pre-occupied with his own reflection created in the thick distortion of rounded glass. He doesn't fan his fins or flutter as fighting fish do, frozen with hesitant anticipation. He wonders if he has over-eaten, if the Beta-food truly compliments his native colors as its packaging asserts. He inspects his fins for the rot of passing weeks and at length withdraws into the open barrels half-buried in the blue gravel, alone and disillusioned. I'll remind myself to clean the tank tomorrow, to fan my fins and flutter.