It’s perfect nonsense to suggest that, be it venal or mortal,
It announces itself with fanfare and hullabaloo,
All but taking out a three-column ad in the trades
To trumpet its arrival.
Its métier has always been the dimly-lit corner,
The whispered admonition, the ramshackle room
In a somewhat undesirable neighborhood,
And while it is certain that it accompanied us
As we emerged from the sea,
It did so on a night unsullied by moonlight,
Surfacing silently with the least desirable of piscine attributes in tow.