The man who kept Lobsters

He used to do it in summer,

at the back of his garden,

in a rusted orange shed,

the New Zealand summer,

dry, uncovering and delusional,

He kept them in black cages,

entirely in the dark,

spraying them with water,

occasionally, just enough,

to keep them alive,

but never healthy,

and he used to fed them,

once a week,

what an affair,

he would drag them out,

the ground hot and shriveling,

In front of his friends,

He would toss scraps of bread,

between the Lobsters,

They would watch them fight,

And when it was over and done,

The victor placed back in darkness,

for another week,

The defeated placed above his barbecue,

cooked alive, beneath a rusted yellow sun,

And,

He used to laugh when he’d tell me this story,

Now,

I work for this man,

Perhaps the Lobsters were lucky.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s