I am not his fellow shark, no, only a little fish with a scratching problem. Since I don't sink often, when others like him surround the table upon which Milton could've studied acceleration, I disappear into the coral-colored room, crack open a beer, and watch the games continue. When I spot those hard-to-miss, whiskey-smelling sharks with tough attitudes, I tell them to sink their teeth in, to go see what they can do. I don't know much about the game, it's true, but what I do know is this: when my favorite shark's triangular-shaped heart breaks, stars and solids rapidly separate.
Fiction, poetry, and all that good stuff . . .