Lobster-Eating Bogeyman

Loud crackle.
Lobster appendages
sacrificed for the spectacle
of pink on liquid butter.
A snap, like fingers hailing a cab
in your night on the town.

I would be the lobster.
I require brutality and a napkin.

Midnight and Indigo butterfly
looping in tangents
after loosing one of four wings,
a plane coming in on three engines,
troubling the tower.

Wagonwheel
embedded in the flower garden,
spokes in rot
where Good Earth’s embrace
betrays, like a mouth.

Swallow hard on the lobster.
Leave no witnesses.

—WT

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