Superbowl

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.