A Bucket of Crabs
by David Symons
I bought a paper today
and perused a menu of petty hells
like a starving urchin
hunting street rats,
circled name tags and aprons
with a red pen.
But the day was good,
a sublime composition
of sun and wind,
and I sat on a step
and let the paralysis descend,
becoming ossified,
becoming part of the architecture,
and I watched helpless
as sunlit hours
scuttled away,
as if I had overturned
a bucket of crabs.