See Ya Later, Alligator

Sitting at the table

with Bobby Charles

I could dream

a bit longer.

The bread pudding

thick in my veins,

the rum sauce,

a heroin

of sorts

making its way

straight for my brain.

Abbeville,

fried alligator

and catfish,

fighting in my stomach,

keeping time to a slow slow

drip of gravy

running down my legs

as I sopped up his every word.

This man,

broken and battered

as the fish on his plate.

A loner.

A fixture,

at table twenty three

day after

day.

Looking out on the restaurant,

holding court with the waitresses,

who pocketed his big wad of money

by the fistful

and brought him gin after gin.

Heart disease wouldn’t dare clog his veins,

not Bobby’s.

He sat,

fat

pouring over the sides

of his chair.

What life had taken from him

was long gone.

See ya later,

alligator.