Fishing For Fishes

There are bottom-feeders, middle-feeders and those that feed somewhere at the top. The alms man’s fish fell somewhere between the middle-feeders and the bottom-feeders, never quite making it to the top of the feeding-chain (one two three a lariat 4 five 6 a seriate). He named his fish after numbers and car-parts and door-jambs and gumbos that tasted better with loads and loads of salt and crackers and mercurochrome, that red stuff you put on a cut or a scratch or an open sore or wound, that sort of wound and sore and a one and a 2 and a three at the Marriot. He so often so felt dizzy and faint and out of sorts sort of, so stood akimbo staring blankly at his fish, Herriot and door-jamb and bumper-car bumper and so on and that sort of thing and all. He slept on the floor next to the fishbowl, never once moving too fast or with a jitter or a hop lest he unrest the fish and cause a kafuffle or a riot or a fish free-for-all all. His da would hobnail his ass if the fish splashed water and fish stuff onto the carpet or the floor or anywhere other than the inside out of the fishbowl bowl. He was careful to a fault, so ever so careful.