The Excursion

[A poem inspired by the Weekend Wordsmith prompt "Zoo"]


The Excursion

I sail across the wide brick plaza,
flitting past the ticket counter,
squinting into the bright
glare off the silver scales
that cover the building's new arm.

In the lobby I wave my card,
hook a schedule,
size up the crowds,
plot my course
and pass into the darker interior.

I want to ebb
when everyone else flows.
I want to be first,
in front,
selfish,
like the penguins in the center pool.

I steer clear of those noisy birds,
to peer through the glass wall
of the Medical Center,
where real people treat
real animals,
where encouraged voyeurism
lets me look at their charts.

I cruise up the outside ramps,
then slowly
float in front of one tank,
then the next:
freshwater and saltwater,
sea jellies and sea dragons,
octopus and anemones,
electric eels,
piranhas,
catfish and trout,
poison dart frogs.

And after floating to the top
I dive down again,
hugging the inner ramp,
a tight spiral wrapped
around the Giant Ocean Tank.

Bright fish and dull.
Sharks and giant turtles.
Big fish and little.
Swimming with the current,
or against,
the moray eel anchored
in a crevice of man-made coral.

I tack past the crowds
out a side door,
to delight in the sea otters,
splashing and playing with toys,
and rolling over to catch air in their fur.

Back inside, I flow
through the special exhibit,
two floors with a focus
and too many people darting around
like a massive school of fish,
impressive, but mindless.

Near the end of my voyage
I resupply at the Cafe
and reel in treasures
at the Gift Shop,
to add to my memories,
as I leave the water-world,
and walk away.



[I am a member of the New England Aquarium in Boston. I don't make time to visit often enough.]