Fan Mail from Some Flounder?

A hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore.

—Gordon Sumner

No, not likely, since what fish is a fan of your work? Up there where you walk and run, bake and fry in the sun, you don’t get to see what’s under the sea that’s never been part of your world. Guess you’d bet we don’t know we’re all wet, breathing underwater, swimming free with our—what is it you call them? Fins. You’ve never known life here below. Never asked questions to learn the answers. But look at this stuff, isn’t it gross? Flotsam and jetsam cast out from your—what are those thingamabobs? Boats.

Don’t expect a bright note from a sea fan when you haven’t tuned in all along, your booming noise wiping out the underwater sound. You’ve never fancied fish with good taste, but only crave flesh that tastes good. Wouldn’t want fish to be too fishy. It’s no wonder you don’t make a splash in this part of the world.

Now, as you feel yourself floundering, wishing some alluring fish might drop you a line, you’re looking for memos uncorked from unrecycled bottles caught in a net with all that dreck the cove collects. Just don’t hold your breath, hoping to find a flattering letter from some singular sole. No, this isn’t a fluke, and this isn’t a fan.