This is a poem about "talk therapy" that doesn’t take itself too seriously. If psychotherapy involves cracking open our psychic shells when we’re "feeling crabby, " and if we submit to this kind of indignity in the hope of obtaining delicious "hidden tidbits" of truth about ourselves, then what could be a more appropriate metaphor for therapy than eating freshly steamed soft shelled crabs? (Well, I suppose eating your run-of-the-mill hard shell crabs would fit as a better image here, but you get the idea.)