Most people can't and shouldn't write poetry. I know I shouldn't, and yet, every couple of years, I write something down. I wrote this a few years ago. No, I'm not going to start posting poetry as a regular thing. I just found this on an old unlabeled zip disk last night and thought that, as far as crap poems went, it wasn't that awful.
Maryland Eastern Shore, Summer 1999
How did we find this place?
A shack in a parking lot
With ambiance spilling from
Cheap Christmas lights and rolls of
Paper towels on picnic tables
We both have sun-tightened faces
Sand stuck between toes and
Filtered through hair
Old Bay sticks to my fingers as I
Fumble with my box lid of crabs
Steaming in the night scented with
Sea spray and suntan lotion
“The males have aprons”
You say, cracking a shell with
Crabs are a mystery to my
So much work for
So little meat
Next time I want the shrimp
Maryland crabs liberally doused with Old Bay...