In the swamp behind my brother's house
rests a baby alligator skull. A white muzzle
of bone on a sheet of drying mud.

When the wind blows through his eyes
his mouth makes a drawn-out sigh
as if he's surrendered at last to the swift birth of his ghost,
to the inevitable rhythm of rain washing away his bones.

If nothing else, he can whisper a song about
no longer having to eat, he can sing the freedom
of charging through the swamp without leather skin
or teeth. He can sing the song about no one fearing
him anymore, no man hacking him apart with
a hatchet some Saturdays ago.

He can sing a song for twilight, which is just now coming on.
For the white face of the moon, the hurricane of stars.
Or he can sing a long, haunting solo for the oak leaves,
his vast, green audience, his gentle friends,
who at this very moment,
are already clapping for him.

Wolff Bowden buys time to write by selling artwork and performing with his band, The Orphan Trains. After growing up in a Florida Swamp, he was named Artist of the Millenium by ArtExpo Miami. His paintings hang in the collections of Billy Collins and Frank McCourt. His poetry has appeared in dozens of literary journals, including The Madison Review and Folio. He has published two books: Orphanage of Imagination (2002) and Heavyweight Champion of the Night (2008). Wolff's poem "Into The Day of Saturn" was recently quoted in a horoscope by astrologer Rob Brezsny. For more info, please visit: www.wolffantastic.com and www.theorphantrains.com.