Like tangram puzzle, I cut a hammerhead out of a piece of white scrap lying on the desk.
The blue stain sits on lower left belly like a patch of water deciding to cling on.
From the back to the fin, I patched greys and blues.
He knows he’s barely strung together with dispensable bits.
He worries every minute he’ll fall apart. Yet, the strong thread tension in his body reminds him he’s alive.
Written on his belly: I shall be brave. I call him Gordon.