Space Race

Space Race

The lobster’s claws hold the moon tight
but we won’t give up our rocketships
or life on mars, so we plunge
deep into the water—
fan our fingers
and make a play
for the shimmering plate—
for that reflected lunar dream—
that stretches from the horizon
to the shore. We stare into the lobster’s eyes
cold, dead things that seem to sigh and say,
“Let me go home.”

Published by dreysleeps

I art and eat and draw and sleep and cry and rhyme. I consume too much pizza and—by all rights—should be dead, but I haven't gotten around to it. Procrastination saved my life.

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