Alligators in Puddles

Alligators in Puddles

3:15 a.m.
I wake and wonder. Was my father right?
Do baby gators wait, submerged in puddles,
golden eyes watching for luscious toes,
bright with polish – served on a sandal?

3:20 a.m.
Perhaps alligators ripple in canals,
climb fences, break through windows
charge the fruit bowl, gulp a cat in one swallow.
I shift in bed, pull up the blankets.

3:30 a.m.
Moonlight streams as I remember Dad’s gift,
the gadget to shatter windows. Then, when
my car plunges off the bridge, I will survive in
swirling waters, the alligators too surprised to attack.

3:40 a.m.
Before Dad died, he placed a knife in my hand
guaranteed to be sharp for a lifetime.
Its blade gleamed like teeth. I shiver, pull my feet
from the bed’s edge where a smiling reptile waits.

Author: Susan Marie Powers

Photo: Atikah Akhtar on Unsplash