That Lobster

Folks from away will never

know the cost of that lobster roll.

Oh, the price, yes

and complaining about it,

then buying one anyway

that’s practically an art.

But not the cost.

Not as we know it

those of us who live from the sea,

by the sea,

and at the whim of her moods.

We know the way the air stills

when a boat is late.

How we all hold our breath

when the gales rise suddenly

and word comes:

a search is on.

And it could be

your son.

Your daughter.

Your husband.

We know the stones,

set near lighthouses and harbors,

engraved with names

names, names

of our lost to the sea.

Please don’t say they should find other work.

Some have tried.

But the salt runs too deep.

The sea calls them back

a siren song,

a pull stronger than fear.

That Mistress

that dominatrix

the Sea.

So yes, our visitors know the price.

But not the cost.