Something's there waiting. Maybe it's on a hook.
Care for a nibble? (You first.)
Hang me a tentacle.
Any one will do. We have lots.
What's down there? Does it have hair?
Is it here, or over there?
What's wet and blue? Is it me? Is it you?
Nope. Something else.
Be here, be ware, be ready, be prepare.
Pray or die, sucka! (Please knock before entering.)
Whatever it is, it's fine. I don't care.
As long as it's properly groomed.
Deep in the sea it floats, writhing its tentacles tentatively.
Waiting to grab your thoughts, or your tuna sandwich — whatever.
Leave it here.
But take the key with you.
Was a gull. Not a buoy, but a gull. Sort of.
It looked suspicious, like it had been too-recently poorly-painted.
What was it hiding?
Said the mermaid to the walrus, "I don't know why, but...
"...some days I just feel sand."
One evening, walking, near sunset.
I saw this waiting.