convention is fun.

I read about a man in medieval China
who set himself the task of breeding the most beautiful goldfish for
some chick
painfully above his station. That's the way stories work,
and I didn't read the end because it was in a book in a bookstore
and I had to go to class. But I thought about it on the way.
And when a papery blonde woman lectured about
Croce and his hard-on for history
I wrote neat dot points in my exercise book.
What goldfish?
How many generations?
What colour?
How long and how many frail fleshless goldfish fry
had to die?
When did he know he was finished and
did the goldfish know
his twisted, slow, ungainly
body was moulded as a noble gesture?
I understand that's the way love works, and,
sometimes I think about the chick and the man but
I wonder about the goldfish.