I named my goldfish as a child,
a christening of sorts I thought -
I had the water, faith required,
they no less creed than babies taught.
Full immersion, as Baptists tried,
three in trinitarian style -
Giggles, Goggles, Gaggles applied
to register, my pets on file.
By that small pond, the hours I wiled,
with swatted flies and gnat larvae,
my daily food programme supplied -
skaters, boatmen, daphnia flea.
And thus my baptised all survived,
as over years that glided by,
so did those fish; indeed they thrived
on tidbits, morsels, other fry.
It was the earthworms fed them died,
and maybe tadpoles from their spawn;
but as in life, in time I cried,
and gravely, buried them one dawn.
Though at their loss I heaved and sighed
I trust they’ll play the Superbowl;
and I’ll remember them with pride,
and how they gave a lad some soul.
Geggles, Guggles never arrived,
which might have made the boy more whole
through long hours wiled at that poolside;
but there’s yet time - my goal, a shoal.
And what a goal, a shoal of gold.