Crab In the Kitchen Sink
i am a Dungeness crab with my claws
now strapped with rubber bands, my food
and my hiding hole taken away, leaving
me seated in someone else’s kitchen sink
sinking with my manuscripts, pens, papers
and pencils to my death like a doomed rapist
murderer ready to walk, nay, sit on the electric
chair, soon to be flushed out as staunch stink
but even here i have not lost my control
to give, to give self as food, age old whine
my writing in heart, that poem, my protest
against being a puck in the skating rink
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