Andrew Kane
Before he was disbarred, my father's world
Was one of paperweights and secretaries
And massive freshwater aquaria,
Filled with exotic fish and plaster castles,
All perched on pedestals atop low desks
In offices whose thin synthetic carpets
Could not eradicate the stale smell
Of twenty, thirty years' cigarette smoke.
After he was disbarred, my father brought
The fish back home to live with him. Most died.
The lone holdout hypostomus still clung
To life as he did to the glass tank walls
In which he, too, finally gave up the ghost.
In Arizona now my father raises
Horses, birds, another family.
He cannot keep the names of all the dogs
Straight.