Lobsters

                                                                                                                Frank Maier

2022 | No. 110

Lobsters

By Henry Rathvon

I hope that I shall never see
A lobster on my dinner plate.

The pincer maws, the crusher claws,
An arthropod — what’s not to hate?

Live lobsters, mafioso thugs,
Are bedbugs with plug-ugly mugs.

Caught lobsters, bobbing in glass tanks,
Exist lethargically — no thanks.

Dead lobsters, torn apart and grilled —
Why do they leave me unfulfilled?

Poems are made by complete idiots
But I’m still not ordering the lobster.

From issue 110

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