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,


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


I work for this man,

Perhaps the Lobsters were lucky.

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