I Commiserate with the Pygmy Octopus Found in the Miami Beach Parking Garage

First time? I get it. In this place, it’s inevitable
to cling to cement like forgotten spaghetti
in the base of the pot. Bottom dwellers, holders

of the smallest hopes, we have so much in common.
Always it’s a rude awakening to find yourself flush
on the floor under the neon glare of a super beaver

moon, the surging sea a near distance, that uterine shed
of toxic algae, the sick-room stink sweeping in long
before the scarlet-feathered dawn, pushing you into

a place you never thought you’d go. All three of your
hearts were born to know what dying is, but this is
different: only air beats through your gills to replace

their copper charges.  Canary in the coalmine of climate
change,  marine biologists call you.  Expect more sea
creatures in dry spaces.  Twitter sends recipes, sarcasm.

This is from the city that brought the world a shark
on the Metrorail. Is it running for mayor?  Harbinger
or hoax, but alive when security scoops you into a bucket

of saltwater and deposits you home—the question is not
how long can you survive out of the ocean, but why should
we have to see your blood to know how much bluer it runs?