Confession of an Illegal Turtle Keeper

I knew taking him from the wild
was wrong—

that he would be better off
in nature or whatever

but he also might’ve ended up
as great blue heron shit

and I’m not sure anything
is better off as great blue heron shit.

Besides, my kids begged me.
Yes, I realize it could’ve

been a teachable moment
but I’d been hard on them

and working late too much
and I didn’t want to say no.

They played with him
all afternoon (salmonella,

I know, salmonella). They named
the little guy Tarzan.

And, if you are wondering,
yes, I paid the price:

aquarium, heat lamp,
water filter, three kinds of food,

basking platform,
submersible water heater,

hermetically sealed river rock,
SpongeBob pineapple.

And I’ll have you know
I did look into getting a permit.

But along with a description,
of habitat, dietary plan,

veterinary information
and ten dollars, you need to attach

a pink slip from the pet store.
My turtle doesn’t have papers.

But before you call the DEP
to crash through my windows

with combat boots and grappling
hooks, you should know

that his water is kept
at a clement 78° in a 40-gallon

tank. His favorite song
is the 2/26/77 Terrapin Station

from the show in San Bernardino
at the Swing Auditorium.

Whenever he hears my voice,
he peaks from the vibrant plastic plants

attached to his artificial
stump. And I know he only associates

me with food. And I will admit
some days he seems to bump

resentfully into the glass
but generally, he is secure

and amiable swimming to-
and-fro, doing dives

and sunning himself.
And so, no, I have no guilt

about keeping a captive
that makes me feel less captive

in the confines of my own secure
and amiable cul-de-sac life.