your name.
They were loud, finding games,
behaving only as well as they had to—
to the envy of no one.
What did we lose when we left them there
on those shores? Whose shoes did we learn to tie?
Though I can’t speak for my brothers,
I feel like it’s better to eat foods I cannot name
than it is to wave a flag in the country of money.
We’d stopped at an alligator farm
on our honeymoon; and the Everglades,
people circling its eyelid, sunning asphalt.
For me that would be like inviting
arrogant students back into my classroom.
Yes, they have a right to exist—
but not here.
My daughter and I did manage some fun:
the in-laws mobile home community pool,
though we couldn’t jump in—pace-makers!
And Haslam’s city, a huge bookstore
in St. Pete’s, where you could actually handle
new books, turn the clean pages, enjoy
the thick vellum, shiny print. You could
gather a stack, return a few—like in older days.
But I keep coming back to those alligators:
hundreds of hatchlings, one on top of the other
in hungry cages, some finding dogs
or two year olds by now.
They are signs of a sort: welcome to Florida.
We don’t have much sense, but our newscasters
are pleasant, and our southern-most
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