Esul

16

Flood Warning

My shoes have become swamps.
When it’s quiet, I can hear scales
Scraping against my feet,
As alligators glide between my toes.

Slugs slowly inch up my ankles,
Making their way to my knee caps.
In the shallow groove where
My thighs begin, they lay their eggs.

Sedge grass sticks to the undersides
Of my socks, green on green on green.
Floridians slip out on occasion,
Lost, looking for the Everglades.

Eventually, I take this swampland,
With my laundry, down to the basement.
I set the machine to perm-press,
My micro-world is drowned in soap.

My shoes are no longer a dirty gray.
But I miss the smell of oranges
That came with the Sunshine State tourists,
Who rode their airboats on the surfaces of my soles.