Chapter 23 - Boiled Lobster

A poem by James Garside

Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

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.