Mr. Croc floats in circadian rhythms.
Daydreams of human boys.
They come by raft or canoe
and jump in one by one,
pounding hairless chests,.
Yodeling like Tarzans
they skinny dip and disappear.
The bayou spreads a rosy hue.
Withered winter willow leaves
on branches hanging low
tickle the snout of his reflection.
He muses to the dragonflies
perched on his bony brow:
“I am a handsome crocodile. Fast and fine and mean.”
He stretches on a bobbing log,
sleeps as spiders spin and bind him.
Held fast by threads of shimmery blue
and pinned by weight of moonlight.