Picking
Lobsters in the Corner Mart
Those plump commas
of claws
can lean and wave at us
their eyestalks blind
to the unchanged water
They scuttle
robotic in the fusia
oxygen bubbles are
degree symbols superscripting
their worth
when we barter and
choose
among the corn chips
and frozen food
I open my billfold
and taste the salt in my blood
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