The cold tank
of lifting bubbles
rubber bands
and lobster slavery
beckons like
a wicked lover's
pity.
'You can have me...
...if you really want'
they say with antennae
outstretched
like reluctant welcome.
I swore I'd be a hero
just once.
Find redemption
in the eyes of
a pinchered, brown sea insect.
Money exchanged hands
and I could smell the adoration
rising from the brown paper bag
like steam
as I waddled to my car.
I was so pleased with myself
as I pulled away
the bag still on the roof of my Kia.
It was blocks before I realized my error with a hasty U-Turn.
Cruel fates! Stolen redemption!
Tire tracks, like grill marks, demonstrating lobster murder.
No hero, am I, who choked on tears the whole way home
to a dinner of shame
with a flat, microwaved friend.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem