By Peter Bethanis
We wait for a table. I watch them,
To pass the time. I bet they never
Dreamed they’d end up here.
They move as if someone pulled
The plug. Eyes hanging musical notes,
Claws miniature boxing gloves,
The rumor is they mate for life.
Snapped up out of a cove in Maine,
How they once scuttled along
The murky dark Atlantic shore,
To the salty wooden traps,
Oh, what restless ambitions
Turn docile to such
A cause? What bib awaits?
Circumstance half of any life,
Antennae pressed against the glass,
Our name is called.
Peter Bethanis teaches English at Ball State. His poems and essays have appeared widely in magazines such as Tar River Poetry, Lullwater Review and Country Journal_. His manuscript,_ In Praise of Dirt_, is available to an interested publisher._
Image: “Late Reading,” photography by Fabrice Poussin
Fabrice Poussin’s poetry and photography have appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and many other publications.