Ben Wilkinson

Again they gather, wide-eyed and at the same time
each day. Hairless creatures, tap-tapping at the glass.

They see me, I guess, as some sideshow of the past –
monster of the deep, trapped and viewable for a fee.

The smaller types clamour, silently chatter, jump
up and down as I glide in, but still to a hush

when I centre my wheel-hub stare into their souls.
Others slouch, prod at screens in tentacled grip

or, loosening an arrow affixed their necks, shuffle off
cradling a slip of black gemstone to bowed heads.

The old I like best. When their ancient eyes meet mine,
mournful, I’m sure they know what it is to lose

an ocean, that endlessness, stretched out before you.

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