The Criminal

I haven’t been committing crimes much, yet,
Although my mind has been preoccupied
With cabbages and kings. The oysters fried,
I ate them without zest, and on a bet
Crushed all the shells and left them sopping wet
In crackling piles two hundred metres wide,
Then I said something too mean, sort of snide,
About not robbing banks — not since we met.

A wondrous feeling, creeping over me
Like spiders on a slice of watermelon
Exploring, like the late crew of Magellan
Moving through the strait from sea to sea,
Reminded me I’ve lived life aimlessly,
An almost altogether blameless felon.