Going Home

quietly, I was boiled
alive
like a lobster,
destined to end up a
fixture on the dinner
table, served with fine
wine from a fine year

a hungry man, dressed 
in his Sunday best waited,
a bib stuffed down his
shirtfront, 
to suck the
succulent meat from my
shell

he felt no twang of
consciousness as
he placed me in the pot

I went easy

no kicks, no screams,
no pleas, no claws

almost as if i wanted it

almost as if i had been
boiled alive before and I 
was simply 

going home