Bruce McGuffin


Blue Crabs

Don’t ever say “cake” to a crab.
Avoid “tartar sauce,” “coleslaw,” and “fries.”
Offshore life can be gloomy and drab
Down below where the kelp forest lies.
They’re depressed but could work their way through
If they just had an able supporter.
The condition that makes blue crabs blue?
“Underwater Affective Disorder.”
Warm hugs from cold octopus arms
And support groups conducted by grouper
Don’t suffice, with their limited charms,
To entice blue crabs out of their stupor.
If they could, crabs would go to the light,
On dry land seeking music and laughter,
A warm neon glow in the night
And the breathtaking dawn that comes after.
But they don’t out of fear that while dining
At a trendy new upmarket venue,
The sort for which blue crabs are pining,
They’d see crabs advertised on the menu.

Bruce McGuffin’s poetry has appeared in Light, Lighten Up Online, The Asses of Parnassus, and other journals. He divides his time between Lexington, MA, where he works as an engineer in a radio factory, and Antrim, NH, where he writes poetry and avoids being useful.