Chili Crab Stain

The screen flickered,

some bright voice talking

about a street,

a humid night.

And then the crab.

Orange. Red.

Sauce thick, like mud,

but sweet. And fire.

The messy work,

the cracked shell,

the bits of white meat

you dug out with your teeth.

My fingers, slick,

the cheap paper plate

gone soft beneath.

A tang of the sea,

something metallic.

That taste,

it sticks.

Not here.

It couldn't be.

That specific heat,

that sweat, that low hum

of too many people.

Just the thought,

a sharp ache.

An impossible hunger.

For something

I cannot make.