The Shrimp Office
I am in brine on my own time, alive in salt,
waiting for death. My shell shadows me,
gets under my skin. My eyes are decimals.
Insect of the sea, I methodically work
abstract figures in fluid ledgers. My life
runs constantly through endless meals.
I am translucent and warm, working,
instead of resting, hiding, instead of fighting.
I think of general accounting, which column
I will fall in, plus or minus, at every occasion.
Even at home, settling debts, I turn to my wife,
the luminous petal of her face, and, wringing
my appendages, say “the numbers just don’t balance.”
She sighs and turns away, while I run another tape,
quietly disturbing the sonorous seascape.
