Clownfish Poem by Stan Petrovich

Boneless beasts
Whose life is no more
Than a wabble in the succulence of plankton,
Far below light,
Were mutations struck in a bad moon,
And being prey
Is the purpose of living.
In another sea
Bereft of eyes today
Some early pupfish gather
In glee,
Living for the rain to fall,
Bumping heads with eating teeth;
Wearing a grin to fill the entrails of a killer.

Now we picture the clownfish,
Fashion plate,
Courtesan appendages plentiful
Chasing its shadow under the spray,
While unthinking rocks
Make memorable mists,
Waterspouts over men's heads,
Who silently think on the shore:
Deriving theories of natural selection,
But doubting that their wives are faithful
Or if their brilliant insights can bear viable fruit.