Lobstora

The call it scenic, the black

Tar spine that cuts into the crags

Of decadent Malibu as the sea

Kisses with boyish shyness the

Retreating face of a continent

That ends too abruptly.

If you parked your car, confusing

The birds that fly home above you,

And stood barefoot in the tide

(you haven’t done this in years),

You would notice the pitons of

A lobster’s head, hollow and

Discarded.

You think back to the stories you

Were told as a child of the cosmos

And the beliefs of people destroyed

By smallpox and freeways who left

Their words unwritten as a final act of

Revenge and seem to remember the

Story of a lobster nebula that cradles

A nest of stars somewhere in the

Galaxy.

Or perhaps you think of reading that,

Without intervention, a lobster would

Live forever as it trudges like a

gravedigger through low tide. This,

You realize, is a symbol of endurance,

The paragon of long life and some

Thoughtless bird has pecked it to

Death and ripped the strips of meat

That would last with

A beak just as crude and ancient.

Already you can feel them waiting

For you to return to your car

And continue up the coast, unfeeling,

You must know, to your absurd

Desire to mourn the repulsive.
They, too, see stars and the lights of

The approaching city churning in

The same darkening ocean.
You reach for your keys to the sound

Of ruffling wings as they groom

Themselves for you.