The Dreadlobster

Sure, I’ll talk—got nothing but time these days.
See? Look at my watch. Ha. So anyway,
deep and dark, fathoms beneath this wan domain
welcoming the corpses of whales and lost sailors is
the Dreadlobster.

Who did you think picked clean
the bones? Worms? Ha.
Only thing eats like that is
the Dreadlobster.

Naw, I ain’t never caught one. I’ve fought one,
though. ‘Twas a day as unlike this one as sheep to sharks,
and the only thing pissier’n the rough seas was
the Dreadlobster.

I know because it took my bait like a dog
muckles onto a soup bone; most of the line was gone before
my shoulder stopped stinging enough for me to fight back against
the Dreadlobster.

Four hours and more I pulled and he
pulled back. And with the last of the day’s light
dancing on the horizon, I caught my first glimpse of
the Dreadlobster.

With a mouth like a ragged hubcap, and
eye-stalks the size of a baby’s leg, and, and quills,
dammit, quills—the scavenger surfaced and I stood face to face with
The Dreadlobster.

I see the way you’re staring. That’s right—that bastard
was playing with me, I tell you. He could’ve pulled my bones down
and in, I’m sure of it, but that wouldn’t suit the tastes of
the Dreadlobster.

But you know what did, it’s written all over
your face. You seem nerved. Keep looking at
your watch. Why don’t you look at mine? Ha.
You get it.
I’m clipped to the elbows on account of
the Dreadlobster.