At Least I Can Walk

I do all the work around here,
but I don’t even have a name.
Not that I need one, but it does
rankle when my roommates, who
are total freeloaders, by the way,
do have names, and apparently
have very fancy fins and tails,
which, OK, yeah yeah yeah,
I do see them—I do have eyes,
you know—and I guess those
things are very nice, but if you
ask me, I’d rather have this
muscular foot. It gets me
zero attention, but at least
I can walk, you know? And
I can climb up the side when
I need to be alone for a while
to think. To chew. To feel
good again, solid as
my shell.

OK, now that you’ve read this far, here’s the photo (the first one of the three).