We Call Him Kitty Gator
He was big, rough, burly, with tattoos everywhere you could see.
Up both arms, down his neck; a big boy, weighted two thirty-three.
I tried not to notice him, for I am afraid of bikers this size.
When he came to the bar, I actually began to rise.
Don’t let me scare you off, he said. And he gave me a wink.
This reassured me a little, I am sure my face was kind of pink.
I decided to stay a bit. He and the bartender exchanged a grrrr.
They were not happy with each other, and I thought a fight might occur.
He’s not that tough, the biker said, pointing to the guy behind the bar.
If you want. I can whoop his ass, and throw him pretty far.
No thank you, I said, trying to down my beer. It had cost me seven.
I wanted to get out of there before someone got shot to heaven.
Bartender was glaring at the big guy now. I envisioned my life gone.
I slurped up my beverage and headed out the door and way beyond.
Hey miss! Someone yelled behind me. I then began to run and duck.
“I have your purse!” the big guy yelled. I was horrified now, I suck!
Big yellow cat lying across a Harley stretched out, gave me a yawn.
The big guy handed my purse, and then the bike he soon jumped on.
That’s my big brother the bartender told me, a few weeks later.
He likes to wrestle with me in the bar. We call him Kitty Gator.
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