Sittin' on the dock of the bay
Every time I drive towards the coast, my stomach begins talking to me. At first, it whispers of shrimp, hauled off the boats, deveined and broiled, dunked in salted butter so rich it drips down my wrist. The my stomach growls about the fresh catch, cleaned while you wait, with the fish purveyor's suggestion on the perfect sauce to whip up. As I drive over the bridge to the island and roll back my sunroof to breathe in the salt air, my stomach roars about oysters, plucked and shucked, so fresh you can grab an oyster knife, pop the shell open and sip the meat.
I dream of months with an R in them. I plot oysters roasts in my dreams. And whenever I am near the coast, I visit the local seafood shop.