by Julia Griffin

“A passenger reportedly brought rotten fish on to the plane in a carry-on bag, and placed it in
an overhead bin, before the maggots broke free and rained on to passengers seated below…”
—The Guardian

O how do you manage in transit
A fish that’s transcended its best?
At check-in they’re looking askance; it
Presents an unusual test.

It’s awkward, when asked for credentials,
At bag-drop or passport control
To hustle through all your essentials,
Like aging red snapper or sole;

You wrap it, perhaps, in your jacket,
And lay it with care in the tray,
But service dogs still may attack it;
If they don’t, the X-rayers may!

But let us assume you’ve succeeded.
You’re boarding, about to get in:
You’re worried now, will it be kneaded
To pulp in the overhead bin?

You’ve made it! You’ve laid it! It’s lying
On top, and the journey’s begun:
Wheels up! You and Fishcake are flying!—
Then something drops down. Not just one …

And everyone’s frantic. “They’re agates,”
You offer (to silence the screams),
But sadly, they prove to be maggots,
And this is a problem, it seems.

There follows a big song and dance. It
Results, I’m afraid, in arrest.
O how do you manage in transit
A fish that’s transcended its best?