Proteus

Shape shift, Old Man 

of the Sea—

I will hold you down

in your midday nap.

Tell me what you know—

about the zigzag, spin, loop and bounce

of sandhoppers, cuttlefish,

or football.

Periwinkles smell the corpses 

of their crab-killed teammates’

disposed juices,

and drive with helmets 

hard into crevices.

Extensive wear on the crabs’ chelipads

may reflect prolonged periods

in the premating embrace.

Breaking tackles.

If we were to throw the starfish out,

barnacles and mussels

in the tidal pool 

would crowd in, 

and the seaweeds, limpets and sponges

could be driven back.

The rush.

I dredge and slosh and crab about

this precious littoral world.

Say what, Old Man?

Yes, it’s a game.