In the shrimp’s head, right beside his brain
the great designer has also placed the heart.
So that the crafty crustacean knows what to do when she calls. The shrimp doesn’t stare at the phone,
actionless, and sleeping with her only means ten more legs in bed
he never drinks nor smokes.
With no emotions to burn, or pain to drown,
why would he?
But even as the shrimp spreads his tail, now below morning tide,
stretching his faned plates into the fine sand like a cold hand under your pillow.
he wonders—how anguish could hurt like hunger
and yearning like swallowing too much.