these caught squid, lowly loligo subulata,
are remarkably coherent in their heedless arrangement,
and await my next performance
in cold, compliant rows.
the plastic splash of an overflow vat,
painting dimes of squid water pon his apron.
i pull out my guitar, bend its neck towards a
slimy, silent, sober situation-
knowing that a fully grown squid
can be longer than the neck of my guitar.
beware the shrill pitch of a customer’s hustle,
asking for three pounds of calamari
at an unbelievable discount.
i play the first probing notes,
strum the six strings with no small hope
of re-animating that which we call seafood,
that which is (at-sea) vetted
and (on-land) vatted, and still,
when they were threatened for the last time
these caught squid used their special power
to become transparent, so that they
could be sealed with the dignity
of near-invisibility,
and my guitar starts to attract attention,
from more than just my cased-up audience.
