Fishing dead bodies in water

never quite prepared Frank for adulthood.
That morning he pulled out a cat and some twister

fries from his net. His actions were studied,
half-hearted as a segment of earthworm inside a beak.

He imagined he had a pile of books
balanced on his head. That was stability for him.

In bed, he sucked smog from his thumbs
and baby-named objects that appeared larger

in the mirror. Frank didn’t know he was
stepping on his future wife’s foot. There she was

beside the fire hydrant, aged by a broken shoe
dangling from her left hand. All he knew was

he hit something hard. He wanted to excuse himself.
He wanted to hum that jingle of keys he knew

belonged to her. He watched as she stood there,
counting his catch, his zipper problems,

his fingers, and wondered how she did her windows
when she thought his back was turned.