I love it when the head coaches of the NFL cover their
mouths when they verbalize their game plans
I wonder if the ocean ever covers its lips whenever
the river opens its wide mouth to disclose its plan to
drown all the carps and catfish through plastic poisoning
I expect the carps to put on their football helmets to defend its life from plastic
I expect the quarterbacks in the form of
phytoplankon to lead the rivers out of hell
When it is January again and the Superbowl hasn't fallen asleep on my lap
I take the salmon to bed with me
And press a warm hand on its cold body
While it dies slowly in my arms
I know fresh wild fish never makes a good face mask
I know I can't resolve my daddy issues by whispering all my secrets to a dead fish
I know that even when I don't cover my face
My life strategy can be read by everyone
Including those who are not even my opponents
Because my secret is that all along
I just want to die with that grill-bearing craniate
In that bed of mine that no one would dare to say is anybody's riverbed
