Washed, striped, like a mackerel back,
Dorsal-finned dunes roll under
Which is Sea.
The crab shakes a fist
Wishing the sun out of the water,
And then, when he fails,
He longs for a top hat, but that would compromise his disguise.
He was my next-door- neighbour,
Until he was deported to Land.
I believe he met a wife (who was asphalt- bound)
But they both ended up
In a bowl
On their backs.