This is not the job she dreamt of:
boiling lobsters in pots
for the loud-mouthed elite -
the bigoted champagne
strawberry crowd.
She feels forlorn.
Their crustacean eyes,
barely clinging to life,
look to her
to be their saviour.
Where were their spider senses
when they needed them?
Overwhelmed by the pull
of salted mackerel
in traps of metal and netting:
a warning beat
only barely undulating
under hunger.
In the kitchen,
she hears them
whip their bodies wildly,
prehensile claws
scraping the side of the pot -
knowing water
but not like this.
