nine hours eating crabs

on the eastern shore,

they like crabs.

they like to sit at a picnic table

covered in newspapers

for nine

hours and pick crabs.

they have mallets

and pliers,

screw drivers,

wrenches and knives.

it's not easy work pulling

out measly bits

of crab meat

from rock hard shells,

but they do it,

fueled with beer,

and hush puppies.

when they dig out a large

piece from a claw,

they hold it up,

waving it in the air,

they dance around

to show it to each other,

rewarded with oohs and ahhs,

a round of applause.

there's tubs of butter

and vinegar on the table,

stacks of napkins.

their bibs are on, their

fingers are bleeding,

but the sun is still up,

barely,

though they're not quite

full, not yet.

still hungry after nine hours.

make room,

here comes another

steamed dozen.