Hi gang, Jim Fowler here again with a new poem, a prose poem. This poem originally appeared in Diner. My prose poems are very surreal but I am also literal, so I try to keep the world of the poem as straightforward as possible, but it is a different world. Enjoy.

They Want Them Back

In the downtown diner, I sit and stare out the window at the rain. It has rained for days, an eternal drizzle. A four-inch fish swims into view; a jade-scaled female gazes at me through emerald eye, bats her dorsal fins. She wants me to gather all the world's diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, all the gemstones except pearls (pearls are shellfish). She wants to rebury her ancestors' eyes. I summon the waitress change my order from a fish sandwich to a chef's salad with thousand island dressing. As I finish eating, the bishop slides into the booth, holds out his hand for me to kiss his ring. I decline. He leans across the table, grabs my forearms, asks, What have you done to bring down the wrath of Gad? The bishop's hands burst into flames. Screaming curses, he flees out into the rain. The waitress refills my coffee cup. From outside the window, a feminine voice says, Thanks.