We live in a concrete paradise,
we must show the galaxy,
attract discerning tourists
and credit cards.
The crayfish debated, argued, disagreed
and finally hired consultants—
humanoids, the cheapest they could find,
whose report confirmed
cement would never go out of fashion,
but mentioned that
a key ingredient was lacking
for the professional turista,
that nature’s true appreciation
necessitates indoor seating:
I can’t work this infernal machine,
pick up a cup or pour the milk.
Although we crayfish are quite cute,
our appendages finish in points.
We need arms with pincers.
Let’s invite the lobsters
to join us.
But lobsters are our mortal enemies.
José, it’s time
to leave the past behind.
Time discretely passes, now
Célia and an unnamed human
wait patiently and not
at a table with a sea view,
sealed in weather resistant blue.
The waiter scuttles
round the broken crockery,
he cracks the saucer
and another latté tumbles.
How long have you been working here?
A year or such,
not too many customers,
the crayfish do a lot of cleaning up.
The human sniffles derisively.
They’re having issues serving coffee,
Célia comments with a Mona Lisa smile,
You don’t have a planet.
Lobsters and crayfish confuse me, especially when they speak quickly. In Australia, what we sometimes call crayfish and sometimes call lobsters (saltwater) have no pincers.
concrete fish, detail above.