Communiqué

I am wearing someone else’s shoes.
I stole them, but they were left right
out on the street. They are plastic pink
ballet slippers, stiff as hardened leather.

I receive a threatening note, in code.
Someone has allowed the aquarium
to go dry; the goldfish are swimming,
gasping, in air. So many languages

I do not speak. Even if I were to set out
now to learn on a magic boat of talent
and time, some would die before
I could reach them. A voice speaks,

clearly: This is about a child. This is not
about comfort. This is about sadness.