The Monkfish

Pike’s Place Fish Market in Seattle, WA is famous for the chefs’ tradition of throwing fish… and (of course), scaring everyone with a dead Monkfish (google "monkfish pictures" and you'll understand).

He lies upon his icy bed

Intent upon the crowd.

The long, black Monkfish, soundly dead,

With needle teeth and bloated head

Is devilishly proud.

 

Beneath the flocks of flying fish

With gaping mouth he waits,

While people stare, bemused, and wish

To see a tasty Monkfish dish

On braver eaters' plates.

 

When watchers form a closer ring

The chefs and cooks connive.

They see much thrilling fun to bring

So with their jerks of hidden string,

The Monkfish leaps… alive!

Author's Note

I thought about adding another stanza, wrapping up the whole thing and explaining where the poem takes place. Should I?