Tanked

.

I had hustled over to the grocery 

Later than intended, 

But needing a few things that  

Would ease the morning. 

Eggs, coffee, juice. 

Maybe some English muffins. 

I rounded an end cap  

Featuring a flashy rainbow  

Of sugared cereals, 

When I glimpsed him 

From the corner of my eye. 

He was backed, or perhaps 

More accurately, “fronted” 

Into a dark corner shadow. 

The traitorous tail tucked under, 

Beady eyes studiously turned away 

From those lingering shoppers  

Still stalking the aisles at closing time. 

Perhaps it was a conscious strategy, 

Shrinking away from the fluorescent 

Glow illuminating the gaudy filets 

Of “wild caught salmon” nestled on  

Uncomfortable beds of crushed ice. 

If so, it seemed to be working. 

He was, after all, 

The last lobster in the tank. 

All alone he, or she -  

How do you know which? - 

Seemed more piteous than 

The cluster of similarly fated 

Crustaceans that usually caught 

My more focused afternoon attention. 

They would mill about among bubbles. 

Almost like an aquarium  

In the lobby of a posh lawyer’s office, 

Or along the wall of a therapist’s 

Discrete and confidential retreat, 

Aping a display at Seaworld. 

Still, no amount of dissembling could 

Hide the eventual end of this tail. 

Yet there he was,  

Tucked behind a carbonated veil, 

Hoping in vain that somehow the deepest 

Reaches of the tank would provide 

The sanctuary denied him 

At the bottom of the sea. 

It all saddened me somehow, 

So I hurried past

Seeking something grass-fed, 

Or even non-GMO free-range, 

Comfortably wrapped in plastic, 

That I could take home 

And toss out upon the grill. 

.