Shark Week poem entry

They say you have to keep moving or else you die.
So I haul my cartilage from surfer to seal,
wall-eyed and hungry, fighting stereotypes.
Call it “feeding frenzy,” but what I feel
Is exuberance, or joy, to say it plainer.
For me, it’s blood in the water. For someone else,
A luggage sale at Boston Store. (But hell–
When is there not a luggage sale there?)
I’m like the rooster who won’t pay child support,
The tom whose kittens are not safe from him,
Can’t stick around. Safer outside the fort.
It doesn’t pay to stop until I cash it in.
But in the ocean, even when you’re dead,
You don’t stop moving. Waves rock your bed.