TO ME YOU'LL ALWAYS BE SPAT

Baby oyster, little grip,
settling into your pinch of shape
on a flooded timber rack:

little living gravel
I'm the human you need,
one who won't eat you,

not with much relish, even
when you're maturely underexercised
inside your knuckle sandwich.

Bloodless sheep's eye, never
appear in a bottle. Always bring
ice, lemon and your wonky tub.

You have other, non-food powers:
your estuaries are kept clean as crystal,
you eat through your jacuzzi,

you make even the non-sexy
think of a reliable wet
machine of pleasure,

truly inattentive students
of French hope they heard right,
that you chant in the arbours.

Commandant-of-convicts Wallis
who got the Wallis name unfairly
hated, had you burnt alive

in millions to make mortar.
May you now dance in the streets
and support a gross of towns!

Note: spat: an oyster in the brief free-swimming juvenile stage of its life.