Princes, unready
to rule France or anywhere else.
No, they are glossy, all-too-human
marine mammals, unable to communicate
with their captors, till the intrepid
children set them free
at the climax of the film.
Some wish they were whales,
able to find their tribe—thanks
to their ultra-low frequencies—over nearly arbitrary
distances, like early AM radio DJs.
No, they are literally DJs, enshrined
in obsolescent studio slang,
who couldn’t master microphones,
soundboards, and other equipment,
however sweet or speedy their on-air patter.
They need frequent rescue. They flail around with their fins.
An old name for edible tuna. Diners don’t want
to eat any species that might someday talk back.
But really, they’re our well-off town’s
traveling swim team,
as the rained-on bumper sticker ahead
of me on Concord Avenue declares: a fundraising machine,
sky-blue and off-white, populated by kids
like ours, some eager
to splash and race, the rest pressed into it
by eager parents, who know they will learn to dive,
and push off fast, and master relay rules,
so that they might come ashore, five or eight years later,
in the right place. Someday they’ll live like kings.