They would think
me crazier than they
already do, so I
don’t tell my friends
that one day, after work
while I crossed the bay
on the Portland causeway
a fully grown and squirming
black drum flew past
my windshield inches
from my face.
I don’t tell them
that for a split
second as it flew
through my view,
our eyes met,
as my mouth
just like the jaw
of the flying fish
hung agape.
Nor do I tell them
that I am certain
for that one moment
the drum and I
shared the same
thought— the great
ontological question—
“What the fuck !?”
And I shouldn’t tell you
that a few days after
the odd encounter,
I saw an osprey
struggling to lift
a writhing fish
over the roofs
of three lanes
of speeding cars.
For we both know
just because you solve
a riddle doesn’t mean
you know the answer.
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