Plankton

Tommy Gault


The tumor was a surprise,

a fat sack in the back of my brain.

If I start going blind, give the doctor a call.

I’m not a rideshare.

I just have a very quiet passenger.

They find my friend in dead people,

cereal box prizes from the yet MRI’d.

I am far ahead of the curve.

My new friend is named Plankton,

a cartoon steering my occipital lobe.

Biopsies,

the on-deck circle of medical tests.

Enter Plankton-

a fistful of clumsy sutures,

a future on the head of a pin.

I only want to meet him in a jar.

He will reside in my living room,

and be featured heavily at every birthday.

Every year, another fuck-you to Plankton.

I will never shake his hand,

my quiet friend in the deafening tube.

As he lounges, I can’t sleep.

Plankton tips drivers at fifteen percent.


Tommy Gault is a writer by trade. They live in L.A. with their husband and two enormous black cats.