Fish Bowl

So many lights below

More as we fly west

                As if the coast

                Took a big inhale that

                                Never exhaled

A big swinging pump

that never equalized

                To center.

They moved out West

And never contemplated

                Moving inland again

The slosh in the

Fish tank hangs

Suspended on the

Edge of the bowl

Each orange amber or

Silver dot shining below could be

A person;

Unique and stuttered dots

In the San Francisco Bay pin ball machine

Lights, darkened only

By the edges of the sea:

Our fish bowl wall