The Last Fish

Though devoid of life; its scales still shine, shimmer, that one could still imagine the fish, swimming, Freely, with others, in the deep blue ocean. Partitioned from the octopus, crabs, mussels by rows of garish bright green plastic parsley one bright eye stares up at me from crushed ice bed. A jolly fisherman in lilting Irish lauds the virtue of his last remaining catch; almighty value, at just eight bucks a pound! "Or six" I hear a distant person holler In hope of taking home a late-day bargain A spiky smile breaks the salt-cracked fisher's face. Early bed, he wants; to dream of land, not sea one month, he's been away from wife and mother. "Ten I'll give," I say to his and my surprise. One bright eye stares up at me from shiny plate. Though devoid of life; it questions my wisdom me too, as I google "how to cook a fish."