Even dou da’ ‘gator’s

been gone for weeks, now,

from dat point on the pond

where he warmed his-self in the sunshine,

in the company of a half dozen

black-mud-covered box turtles

and one mean, nasty snapper,

like some scene from WILD KINGDOM,

Marlin Perkins dronning on about

their surprising comradeship…,

these progeny of dinosaurs…

Still,

the memory of da’ ‘gators sinister presence,

haunting the air

and my recurring nightmare

of doze razor toothed jaws viced ’round my thigh

and that sudden tug towards oblivion,

in a rolling vision

of blue-sky-black-water-blue-sky-black-murky-mud

an’ blood in the water

lingers there.

So the little girls Momma from next door

an’ Jeremiah, drunken owner of that rambunctious coon hound pup

across the dusty path from my place

won’t let them frolic on the point no more

for fear of, well, just maybe…

It hangs over the community

like the memory of Lee-Roy Tolber,

lynched.

Dangling from the tree limb.

His corpse twirling at the end of their rope,

round and round,

year after year,

for generations in this town.

The crow perched on his bloody head,

cawing the flock to feed.

Sure,

the body’s been cut down, decades ago

and the gator’s been gone for weeks,

but, still…

Y’all, just never know….