The Gator Farm
There’s a fenced acre beyond my backyard
Far-side the sewer trench and the tree line,
Where a man-dug pond of scummy water
Sickly skinned with infesting duckweed,
No rivers, brook, nor streams flowing,
That same putrid water still there sitting
Motionless, going no where.
Gators live there,
Imprisoned ancient predators undermined,
Twice longer than a man and thrice longer evolved,
Yet I, fearless, could come intimately close
If I wanted, of course,
Provided the fence intervenes;
I could feed it scraps of carrion as I would
A lowly dog a treat,
If I wanted, Of course,
Provided the fence the beast to its side keeps
Away from me and mine.
If I wanted, why,
I could even tease it pointblank
Provided the fence intervenes.
The beasts of the farm I call by a sullied name:
“gator,” a mockery.
Could I be as bold as to salute such a beast
On his riverbank with such tactless brevity?
No, this beast of the river I would call
“The Alligator,” respectfully.
Nor rafting the waters of the Nile could I
Ever speak a name but “The Crocodile”
If confronted by one and call myself—
By containment and separation we dominate,
Surrounded by suburbs, far side the city skyline,
Sitting motionless is a ghetto going nowhere,
No highways, byways, or subways run through it
Niggers live there, men called by a sullied name:
Of course, provided they always separate remain.
by sarah leanne
October 30, 2012
September 29, 2013 12:25 AM EDT4 people recommend this comments: 6
The Gator Farm
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