The Lobster Clip

The whole room was a shade of gray,

polite, hushed, wanting to pray.

Uncle Morty's words, a solemn drone,

about a life he barely had known.

And then I saw it, almost missed,

a tiny lobster, claw-clenched fist,

on Cousin Bob's tie, a shiny fright,

and it slowly started to take flight.

It slid, an inch, then two, then three,

down the silk, for all to see.

A slow descent, a crimson glint,

a funeral's most absurd hint

of something real, something not quite

perfect. I held my breath tight,

a small snort caught behind my teeth,

while sorrow pulled me underneath.

And in that moment, all was bright,

a guilty, fleeting, wild delight.