Bofinger, in the 4th near Place des Vosges
– hushed place where they bring in the white Limoges,
wine vinegar with shallots, and embarrass
lovers’ hands with lobster picks and crackers;
precision tools for winkling out the meat,
stashed white and succulent, just out of reach
of the trickiest fingertips. To snap
in bits the creamy smooth tectonic plates
between the jagged edges of amber,
and wreck those exquisite articulations
is the work of the devil. No wonder,
when it’s dropped plumb into boiling water,
still blindly groping, the lobster screams.
