Tish Eastman

Catfish is Plural and Singular

guess I’m the catfish now

filtering frown lines

through digital gills 

avoiding fish lines

like a whiskered jinn 

sucking scum off the river bed

sculling in the mainstream

riling up salmon 

with a flirtatious fin 

so the fat fish 

are delivered fit 

for when the real catfish

scam their way in. 

The Joy of Blocking

Ingredients 

don’t always blend easily;

it takes patience and practice

to thread cold cream into a hot roux.

Too many cooks 

lack skill or the desire to learn.

We separate 

like yolks from whites

and snap ourselves 

into airtight containers,

retreat into flipped-image houses, 

on opposite sides 

of the aisle.

We order our meals delivered 

and having no further use 

for kitchens,

(or the clattering chaos 

of chefs),

civil 

dinner conversation

stops.

We tap in a box

and block.

Life Raft

We all forget in the chaos

of shouting about privacy 

and conspiracies 

trolls and scams 

allegations 

and addictions

that billions of  

benign interactions 

like tendrils straining

toward tenderness

zip around a globe

where a million someones cry

and their faint SOS

gets answered.