Kiss me fish
by Christos Polydorou
This is not a complaint, a letter, an email:
it is a poem.
It is in a minor key,
as it is about a coincidence.
I felt I had
to begin stating the obvious to ground myself.
Because I went out to purchase some items
and I looked at London and London looked so despondent.
I got this word from Ali Smith’s Autumn
which I am rereading for the second time.
The part where the protagonist, Elisabeth,
eight, meets Daniel Gluck, an older neighbour,
who changes her life
with all the arty art on the wall.
Now as I am in my room
writing this poem on my laptop
it occurs to me that I was sitting on the street
reading about two characters meeting on the street.
This was unintentional, on my part.
I chose to sit there, of course, but not meaning
to act out a few pages in a book.
It just sort of happen.
* * * * *
This sort of thing happens all the time.
When I begin to walk
an alternative map appears in my mind
where I ought to go, to experience something,
which is typically minor,
perhaps even mundane,
but because it was timed
in such an effective way
in my every day
I find nothing complimentary to say.
But only the odd desire to describe what occurred.
With a mixture of excitement
because it fills me with such excitement
to metafictionally see the moments in which
art surpasses me
to be so humbled
by something so ultimately remote
it is lip-close.