FRESH FISH
If you called Rob and asked for fresh fish
you might get a laugh. He might say
Make Me An Offer. The last fish that entered
this place might have mouthed off about the décor before losing its head.
Rob is selling Q Ribs, Zones and Gies.
Perhaps less fresh. Perhaps he holds
the missing numbers between 1 and 8 for ransom. Somebody had a sincere idea here. Grill and a deep fryer. Fresh, that’s what mocks me, Rob. Rob, old buddy old pal, you foreclosing fool you.
If you let weeds grow long enough, they become flowers. HOAgies CALzones BAR-B-q ribs. Good luck, Rob. Selling this place. Look close: even Howard Hannah Real Estate has abandoned you. If I call Rob,
can I at least leave a message?
Guardian Burglar Alarm sticker.
Did a little bell tinkle
when you walked in the door?
Did somebody look up and smile?
Say, “how about some of our fresh fish”? Where’d everybody go? Out of the frame life expands until it finds a sign of life.
The waiting area at TGI Fridays — as big as this entire restaurant — fills with the sad safety of numbers.

Maybe Rob is there, waiting for a table on an actual Friday. Happy Hour.
Somewhere in the office, the key to this place sleeps in the bottom of a drawer.
Once somebody sincere held that key
on a ring of other keys and they made a sound something like hope.
This picture is so silent, not even dogs can hear it. Not even the wind
has a point of view.