The cold-blooded version of slowing down,

not the sleep of hibernating bears or marmots

or dormice, but the sluggishness, the torpor,

the lethargy of alligators in the winter south.

 

In colder months, they don’t eat, but they hydrate

and even bask in the sun on temperate days.

Perhaps then they’re less likely to attack

petite poodles on the leashes of elderly women.

 

Once, at the beach, I passed Alligator Adventure,

chose not to buy the ticket allowing me to self-guide

my fear through the acreage, perhaps come upon

an alligator, perhaps the famed albino one.

 

I am not fond of them, those scaly monsters

of my nightmares. Perhaps this herpetophobia

keeps me from taking up their cause,

protesting in the streets to solidify their rights.

 

But there is reason to protect them

from graceless hunters without scruples,

from developers who want to clear land

for golf courses and condo communities.

 

Someone, though, must look out for the them,

these knobby, scary-jawed, unattractive animals.

Someone must look out for all the creatures

left to maneuver this human world