The View From the Top of the Fishbowl
Her spindly legs scroll across an oak ledge,
browsing on Webster's Dictionary edge.
The bust of Bizet, she rests on his ear.
"To Swim to Believe" this page had a tear.
Sits on a compass that's tethered to twine,
scales a green candle that smells like spruce pine.
Scuttles a temple I bought in Athens,
she perched on the clock, it read half past ten.
Creeps through an etched heart not breaking to read,
the carved "I Love Joe," the words not her creed.
Crawls on a state map that shows all of Maine,
climbing the fish bowl, it won't be in vain.
Mounting blunt edges, the surface like crags,
the rim of the orb she poised her eight legs.
Lolled without moving her fixed crystal stare,
the view from the top of the fish bowl is rare.