until next year

the table is covered in newspapers.
mallets and pliers. tools that appear
to be dental tools are scattered about.
there are small ponds of melted
butter in shallow plastic
cups aligned next to tin shakers
of seasonings
of an orange color,
jars of vinegar are clear
enough to see straight through.
in the middle of the table
are dozens of reddish freshly
steamed crabs, once blue, dead now
from the boil of water
and steam. they are crusted
with a brown salted sand
of herbs and spices. the mound
is a foot or two high.
a secret mix someone says
as he brings out a plate
of corn on the cob
and sets the wobbling dish to
the side.
there is beer too. tall
pitchers of yellow beer
being poured into red cups.
suddenly everyone is seated
and together, like machines,
with quick fingers,
the experts dig, pound, and suck
the sweet white meat out of claws
and shells. at some point
the sun goes down. the crabs
disappear. what's left of
the beer goes warm and is tossed
out into the lawn. the newspapers
are folded together with the empty
shells. the cars drive away. the red
tail lights disappear
down the winding road until next year.