lobsters

You told me you'd get to
the lobster
tomorrow
and you went back
to playing your video
games
for the rest of the night

In the tank,
the lobster molted
again and again
while you remained the same
in your
T-shirt and sweatpants
from the race you
lost last week

The next morning
you had another excuse
as I washed the windows
from the outside
looking in at you

The earthquake
that afternoon
barely shook
the glamour photo
you kept of yourself on the mantle
in the bedroom

There were already
too many of you
here
to keep track of;
either your ego
or I
had to leave
or we'd all be dead
by morning

I began talking
to the lobster instead,
quietly at first, then loudly,
wondering
how many incarnations
we saw of you
that year
in your room full of
mousetraps
and half-eaten takeout
as we awaited word
if you'd eat today
or be eaten