written By
We wait for a table. I watch them,
To pass the time. I bet they never
Dreamed they’d end up here.
They move as if someone pulled
The plug. Eyes hanging musical notes,
Claws miniature boxing gloves,
The rumor is they mate for life.
Snapped up out of a cove in Maine,
How they once scuttled along
The murky dark Atlantic shore,
To the salty wooden traps,
Clicking shut.
Oh, what restless ambitions
Turn docile to such
A cause? What bib awaits?
Circumstance half of any life,
Antennae pressed against the glass,
Our name is called.
