On the Wrong Side of the Reptiles
William Doreski
Where the avenue passes a marsh
alligators overrun it.
Most people won’t pass on foot,
but I no longer own a car
so walk the avenue to work
in the grim brick hospital looming
atop the hill beyond. Two-foot
or three-foot reptiles don’t threaten
or attack. The giant twelve-foot
critters have slowed with age and weight.
Eight to ten-foot alligators,
however, can run like bloodhounds
and sometimes hanker for white meat
from a human leg. Police patrols
drop orange warning cones beside
the liveliest gators. I dodge
those that smile most broadly but
sometimes I have to run. The shift
in climate encourages reptiles
to sun year-round. Hurricanes
even in December rile the sea
and drive the gators far inland.
As the planet warms the reptiles
remember that eons ago
they trundled unchallenged across
the damp and yielding plateaus
while sea mists birthed new species.
Soon the marsh-water will rise
and big trucks will splash through dips
where avenue and marsh will merge.
I’ll have to room at the hospital
and give up my tiny apartment
on the wrong side of the reptiles.
The days grind exceedingly fine
as vegetation thickens the roadside
and the alligators lengthen scale
by scale, their pointed teeth polished
as if to scrimshaw themselves
by grating and rasping my bones.
Where the avenue passes a marsh
alligators overrun it.
Most people won’t pass on foot,
but I no longer own a car
so walk the avenue to work
in the grim brick hospital looming
atop the hill beyond. Two-foot
or three-foot reptiles don’t threaten
or attack. The giant twelve-foot
critters have slowed with age and weight.
Eight to ten-foot alligators,
however, can run like bloodhounds
and sometimes hanker for white meat
from a human leg. Police patrols
drop orange warning cones beside
the liveliest gators. I dodge
those that smile most broadly but
sometimes I have to run. The shift
in climate encourages reptiles
to sun year-round. Hurricanes
even in December rile the sea
and drive the gators far inland.
As the planet warms the reptiles
remember that eons ago
they trundled unchallenged across
the damp and yielding plateaus
while sea mists birthed new species.
Soon the marsh-water will rise
and big trucks will splash through dips
where avenue and marsh will merge.
I’ll have to room at the hospital
and give up my tiny apartment
on the wrong side of the reptiles.
The days grind exceedingly fine
as vegetation thickens the roadside
and the alligators lengthen scale
by scale, their pointed teeth polished
as if to scrimshaw themselves
by grating and rasping my bones.