RIB CITY
she wouldn’t let me eat seafood
wouldn’t let me
because she had the car, the money
and she hated seafood
living in florida
hated the water, hated seafood
was fond of very powerful air conditioning
and took a long time to prepare
to leave her thick carpeted, frigid home
her daughter was a young love of mine
the trip was a lark
mother will be really surprised
and i want to check her out
see how she’s doing
we drove around all morning
looking for something
i wasn’t listening
then to the beach
me in the bar
the ladies burning themselves
discussing
then i would ask
where can we get some great seafood?
more discussions unrelated to my question
my beer buzz thick, brain pleasantly bruised
sand whisking around my pale ankles
the ladies, bronze red, smelling of coconut
discussing as we drive, always driving
then to rib city for dinner
rolls heavy as overnight diapers
cups wide enough to fit your head in
piles of varied meat
gorging on thick wooden tables with
oversized forks, vicious looking knives
their discussion turns on a point of sadness
there are tears between gnashing meat tugs
and massive roll buttering
then back to the frozen bungalow
i am sober now, laying on burgundy carpet
gazing at popcorn ceiling
i ask where she got those extra thick bath towels
there is no answer, but a sandal kicks me
i am not to lay in the middle of the floor digesting
mother heads to bed without saying goodnight
i am summoned outside in the erotic heat
that feels like a vat of melted butter
being poured over my head
she is upset about the matters discussed at dinner
assumes i was listening and am sharing in her frustration
i read somewhere that alligators patrol these sluice waters
for house pets, and, they assume
an occasional senior gone missing
i notice her freckles have darkened
i forgot you had freckles, i say
she pauses her story to damn me and my behavior
i listen intently to every word, or every third word maybe
money, drunk, try, frustration, beer, day, pout, floor
a dark form moves from the black water
onto the sod next to the neighbor’s dock
the pork and wheat and yeast in my stomach
become an iron ball, the veins in my neck are collapsing
her freckles and moving lips are out of focus
the dark form disappears in tall grass
i apologize, keeping my eye on the shuddering black grass
in the morning i consider confronting them
demanding to know why i can’t eat seafood in florida
instead, i throw up in the shower
the iron ball of beer and buffalo
diffusing in the sulfur smelling water
that, with the stomach acids, and the innards of rib city
seems to boil my sunburned feet
i pity the crab i desire, my yelch clogging the drain
it seems i will never leave here, or eat dreamily plump seafood
the water climbing my ankles, creeper slow, like a hungry gator
