Boiled Lobster

I didn’t realise

You were there until

I saw you snatch and

Snap your grubby claw.

*

Your shuffles invite

Me to look at you.

Others scuttle while

You sit, still moving,

*

Red wet glistening,

Listen awkward in

Your shell. Can you tell

I am watching?

*

I sit in my place.

The whisper is you choose

Something to your taste

From what’s on display.

*

Now you shy away,

Camouflaged by the

Rest. You crawl among

More dinner guests:

*

The crabby one,

The little shrimp,

The old trout,

The wet fish,

*

My mind is made up.

I think fish thoughts,

Aiming loud at your

Blood coloured head.

*

Food for thought,

My look says

One thing

—I’m having you.

*

Black white, black white

Blocks my view:

The colours you call

Chef or Waiter.

*

A great claw

Picks me clean

From the

Water.

James Garside is an independent journalist, author, and travel writer. Join Chapter 23 for the inside track on all their creative projects and insights about life, work, and travel.