The Cold Fish

Left to his own devices, the cold fish
Makes no pretence that he feels the effect
Of others' suffering. He is stiff-necked
About such things as empathy, a dish
(He offers) best served cold. It is his wish
That people, who might well find themselves wrecked
On shoals of great emotions, form a sect
To slam doors on. He isn't ticklish.

Nor is the cold fish ever truly cold:
He feels nothing at all, at least most days.
There were some thoughts once, in a summer's haze,
Of sweet affection's triumph. That got old,
And now intimacy is bought and sold
With paint, and sequins, bright lights, and green baize.