They say the memory

of a goldfish is just

three seconds long soon gone

one swim around the world

Atlantic Pacific

Kensington way off base

is all it takes to drown

in seas of memories

sluggishly watered down

two many backwards strokes

Atlantic Pacific

Kensington this bus route

a flotation device

fishing for weighted pasts

hours anchored in pubs

picnics bedded in parks

hands held in waiting rooms

Atlantic Pacific

Kensington Atlantic

three laps are too many

when fins flail helplessly

caught up in currents

those unfamiliar tanks

where goldfish turn silver

with full-moons of null

two black blank O’s screaming

Who am I?

Who are you?