fish on ice

your son, at five,
points to a chilled
glass box of fish
on ice
at the back
of store. are
they sleeping,
he asks. pointing
his pink finger
at the row
of still soft
shad and trout,
the whiskered
slick cats.
like soldiers
coming home.
it's a very
long sleep you
tell him,
and let it pass
at that.