A deep pit with a crumbling edge.
Far below,
is a muddy pool swarming with crocodilians.
There is someone with me, a boy.
I shouldn't have taken the child here.
I am slipping, taking him with me,
he won't let go of my hand.
We are sliding on pebbly scree.
A gun drags at my hip,
its weight pulls us down
to where green-scaled
and armored reptiles
thrash in a melee.
One mindscape devolves into another.
I’m a visitor to strange
and as yet unmapped streets.
I've lost my parked car
somewhere between many unfamiliar
city blocks.
Home is a door in the back of my mind,
I suspect that behind it
is a child who knows the way back.
A small boy appears,
he is holding a tin wind-up crocodile,
one his dad once bought him.
At his side a long-barreled revolver,
the same type of weapon
I purchased in Florida
in the event of an alligator attack.
The alligators will not stay in the water,
they head for strip malls, for chicken noodle joints
or sports bars for fish taco or spicy wings.
They get their nails done in a Korean salon
paying in Spanish gold.
The two legged;
the cranes, herons, and humans
edge around the gators.
Occasionally, rowdy boys bounce stones off
their scaly hides.
The unflappable crocodilians slyly grin
for they are ecologically moving-in.
Shrewdly, the reptiles are styling
alligator belts and boots, or sell gator skin handbags
from wayside stalls and booths.
The Floridians have become inured
to these green interlopers. Some seeing opportunity,
rent them housings with few tenancy rules
and ‘must have’ pools.
Sadly many furry pets keep going missing;
and not just the Cypress trees are stumped.
It’s a new era, one to be nearer together.
Undocumented or free-range, no longer estranged.
but one shared love for chicken, be it raw, fried
or grill flamed.
There is someone - a boy.
I shouldn't have taken the child here.
I'm slipping, taking him with me;
he won't let go of my hand.
We are on the very verge
of a deep pit,
teetering upon its crumbling edge,
at the craters floor a pool
in those waters are sauropods,
crocodilians.
Scree rolls under our feet;
the heavy handgun on my hip
weighing us down, dragging us toward
those saw-toothed muggers
who now thrash in an expectant melee.
In a dreaming funk,
a pensive fear snatches at my flesh,
Then as we slip and slide I glance at the boy
seeing myself in him.
I shout to that younger me
that we both will die from the unforeseen
one day, but not today
for I exchanged that old revolver
for a less heavy Glock.
The scene melts, my child-self
still clinging to my breath
asking the bedroom ceiling: when?
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