Fish Tank
  
Not able 
to contain my curiosity,
I positioned myself
upwards to peer over,
view and study
the fish
in the blue
plastic tub waiting
to be put back
in the tank.
They didn't move.
Not
one
was swimming.
 
They must know 
that it is winter
and all the streets 
and sidewalks
are smeared
in ice
inviting 
even rocks
and grass blades
to slip
out of balance.
They must feel
my shadow,
dark,
looming over
and pretend 
like I used to
sometimes when the light flicked on
to be sleeping.
 
The blue rocks
at the bottom
of the large tank
shimmer and stay
sunk
and stuck to each other,
the force of the water
threatening
to up heave them
if they shift
or sparkle less
or more,
to take away
from the waters'
own glory.
 
They are poured back,
and the look in their eyes tells
nothing.
They don't flutter,
confused,
like a bird who flew in
and was swept out
with a broom
while the people
chirped
and gazed
at the wonder
of a bird 
indoors.
 
It is an unspoken law.
The same that wakes us up
and puts us to rest
at moon's 
shinning.
We can fill a space
in a corner
with a fish tank
so we don't feel 
so alone
or trapped as we are,
as they are,
in this space 
too small
for ourselves.

Janet Wright's Questions:

-Does the last stanza stay fluid with the rest of the poem, or does it deflate the whole meaning and image by being too blunt?

-In the second stanza, do the lines about pretending to be asleep seem arranged correctly, or does the reader get lost in the length of the statement?

-Are the line breaks too constant, or do they help the reader separate the sounds and ideas?