Mermaid

Women there know how to live,
flippers and sunshine and sea, 
scales adapting to sand
or saltwater, tawny skinned, 
smiling, escape nearby
whenever mood or tide arises.

Meanwhile, somewhere,
collapsed at a laptop, 
stiff-necked skeleton, 
tie still strangling 
a calcified sense of self. 
Skull on keyboard, 
glasses abandoned, he is

visionless, hollow eyed, 
a man sans sight. Sans smell.
Sans lifeblood.

How long had he been there – 
cracked tailbone, teeth, blank screen?
Office frigid, crusty coffee cup,
tiepin, notebook, dried pen? 

If only he'd had some water.
If only he, too, had fins. 

-Katherine Gotthardt