A shoe with legs, <br />a stone dropped from heaven, <br />he does his mournful work alone, <br />he is the old prospector for golf, <br />with secret dreams of God-heads and fish heads. <br />Until suddenly a cradle fastens round him <br />and his is trapped as the U.S.A. sleeps. <br />Somewhere far off a woman lights a cigarette; <br />somewhere far off a car goes over a bridge; <br />somewhere far off a bank is held up. <br />This is the world the lobster knows not of. <br />He is the old hunting dog of the sea <br />who in the morning will rise from it <br />and be undrowned <br />and they will take his perfect green body <br />and paint it red.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lobster/
