When children press their hands against my tank,
Their fingers flat against the curving glass,
Their wonderment’s encompassing and frank,
Their innocence will merit them a pass.
A child’s esteem’s not based on perceived rarity.
Whence comes their food, they do not have a choice.
They are oblivious to the barbarity,
By which the careless nearly drowned my voice.
Remember, what you do after you leave
May help to give one like me a reprieve.