BATHTUB FISHING AND CHANCES FOR REMAKE
When mistakes repeat we’ll cheese grate the sheet music. We’ll choke déjà vu to death--hold old faults underwater till their legs stop flailing, fingers quit trying to scratch up the length of our arms, pinch at our wrists.
If problems grow gills and learn to swim the tub, feed off shower scum, then we’ll go fish--hooks in the upper lips and out left eyes. On our bathroom floor they’ll die, beaten.
Once gone the troubles might haunt, but so what for half-lives. If translucent fish come to your side, if they whisper you’re bored of me, agree, and in the morning know it was only the ghosts of scaly forgottens.