by Jim Gustafson
A man selling frozen lobster tails and steaks door to door Wednesday afternoon in Cape Coral was fatally shot by a homeowner.Jul. 25, 2012 Fort Myers, Florida News Press.
"Good Day Sir
May I interest you in some Lobster Tails?
Lovely Maine Lobster, fresh frozen
That you can boil or
Bar-b-"
Not the anticipated response.
A rather strong objection
Never discussed in sales training.
He didn't even get to pitch the steak
Back-up to the more profitable lobster.
It is a sad tale this
One moment, happy to be working
In a neighborhood of Middle Americans,
Doing math in his head,
Figuring his commission.
Next moment, all calculations cease.
Smith and Wesson blunt tip
Smacks his chest,
Sends his folders flying
In the front yard breeze
Where they drift like confetti
In gentle sways
To earth.
He falls on his back,
Looks up as he bleeds out.
Strange glows roll in
On blue moments
Between storm clouds
Reflected in dark canal water
Where fresh rain air
Scents all that is still.
Upon learning of his fate,
Lobsters cease to tread
The sea's soft sand floor
In a moment of respect ---
They stand claws closed,
Bodies rocking in the cold
Current moving in
The music of the tide.
Lobsters prefer to be
Frozen and avoid
The scalding screams
Of death that come
In live boiling caldron dips.
The cattle did not care.
News reached them late.
They grazed on without grief
For they abhor the thought
Of their loins frozen
Brick hard wrapped
In white waxed paper
To be sold from a truck.
It is, they believe
The worst possible fate.
Every cow's dream is the display case
In a boutique butcher shop
On an upscale street in Connecticut
Where tinted windowed SUV's
Parallel park next to trees planted
In spaces surrounded by bricks.
Where the best of people come
With their own cloth bag
To tote fresh beef home
In a smug testimony
To the importance of clean air.
There is a difference ---
While land is occupied,
The sea is only visited.
The cows resent constant
Traffic's thunder passing
On pavement rolled out
Over pastures where
Their ancestors once grazed
To the chorus of birds,
While lobsters never grow
Weary of ancestral sea melodies
Sung so deep even ships
Overhead do not intrude.
Different worlds these ---
Land and sea,
A choice for burial.
Where does one put
A surf and turf salesman to rest?
Jim Gustafson lives in Fort Myers, Florida where he reads, writes, and pulls weeds. His chapbook, Six Rivers, will be published by Aldrich Press in early 2013. He is the winner of the 2012 Southwest Florida Poetry Festival prize.
