crab fest

crabs bore me.
their hard salted shells.
the blue cooked out of them,
now red.
the piles with sharp pointed
claws and ridged backs,
stacked on old news
copy.
the mallets
and pliers. the assortment
of dental
tools to dig and scrape
out tiny morsels
of white meat. so little
for so much work.
the beer mugs
and vinegar spill
tubs of melted butter too,
they drip and rain
on the bellies, the bearded
chins, the doubled chins,
the pointed chins
sucking corn from a cob,
yes, we need vegetables too.
everything ends up
into laps
now unbuckled, loosened,
unsnapped.
they should be free,
these strange creatures,
these scavengers
found at the bottom
of the inlet, the bay
and sea. crawling forever
in sand.
three hours later, with
bleeding hands,
you're still hungry.