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Poem

This bowl of lobster shells 
looks very pretty
and yet so sad.
The bright red carcasses 
all cracked and emptied out
have served me well
with their luscious innards
of tender sweet flesh
unctuous with brine and butter
that sated me
and gratified 
my deep-sea desires
for this ultimate
New England joyance 
on this
muggy Summer day.
If I had 
any ambition left,
I'd dump these
scarlet remnants
into a big ol' pot
and toss in
onions,
bay leaves
and peppercorns
for a savory
perfumed stock.
But for now
I'm glued 
to my chair
happily lobster drunk
and in a buttery haze
and licking my
salty fingers 
for any last residue
of that 
resplendent crustacean
now reduced 
to a heap of shells
in an old glazed bowl
on a lemon-yellow afternoon
somewhere on the coast
wondering how long
I can last
until the feeling 
comes again
and I don my old stained bib
and haul out 
the nutcracker and pick
and get the butter drawn
for another
Homarus americanus 
adventure
and find myself
staring down
a new warm mound
of cracked and emptied
lobster shells.

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