Remember, Reader

Blue. I was blue as the true ocean.
Creeled to shore, knew I was always pot-bound,
intranet chatter held talk of my ultimate fate:
my carapace turning to this familiar red.
My joints to be fractured, sucked, spat out, picked over,
made fodder for shell-mound, midden-skimmer
of the future. Lemon tang sharp as the knife
that a Pont de la Tour Café future
glistening up to meet me contained.
I shall become the centrepiece
of another splaying: one where langoustines
dance their leggy can-cans on ice,
where crabs watch the side-shows
of their own destruction.
I am still the centrepiece I deserve to be.
But know we were boiled alive: let's call it for what it is.