the blue crab blues

you've almost made it
through the summer without having
to pick and eat
crabs for seven hours
at a picnic table.
a table covered in newspapers
that no one reads
anymore, with
puddles of plastic
cups filled
with butter, vinegar
and the tools.
mallets and pliers, forks
and knives spread out
for any hand that reaches
for them.
tools to dig out the tiny
morsels of white meat,
if any
hidden between the crusty
sharp shells that bite
and make your fingers bleed.
you haven't had to drink
the beer and swat at the flies
while some one orders
hush puppies because
they're starving.
you've been lucky this summer.