The refinery looms
as a dinosaur, for seven days
we sunned, swam, and fished
from the sandy shores of Lake Catahoula,
our family vacation of 62.
Seven nights in a musty cabin
with spider webs, dead moths
and rodents in the walls
but we departed tired, dirty, and somehow satisfied.

With his shirt plastered, in the days before AC
the Old Man sails the DeSoto like a river barge pilot.
Me and my kid brother captive in the backseat
scratching bites, and pinching the need to pee.

A billboard emerges ethereal
from haze on the horizon:

“Gordy’s Gator Ranch!
See The Two-Headed Snake!”

Pictured: a coiled, two headed, red eyed, fire-spitting viper.

“Fer Chris’ sake!“ the Old Man proclaims,
“Dis I gotta’ see!”

Wheeling thirty three miles down a rutted road
to a cypress shrouded, slat fenced sheet metal shack.
Two bucks admission, Each!
passed to a braless and sag titted hag,
welcomed through the rusted turnstile
by her snaggle tooth smile.

Bent and twisted like wire, Gordy
our amiable host, complete with pith helmet
boxer band high above droopy trousers
matter of fact in his declaration,
“You’ll wanna’ stick around fer the feedin’.”

A penned in, dirty, green pool
my spine tingled by the hidden
the depth could only be imagined.
Yellow stained rats dumped from a pail
a few gators swim indifferently
swallow a rat if one happens in.
A putrid rat pinned in a corner
remains from an earlier feed
partly explains the stink.

Roused from a shoe box
an earthworm limp in Gordy’s calloused claw
but sure enough, milky eyed and two-headed
a snake, in the loosest sense of the word.
He proudly describes the mystic morning of discovery,
by his sag titted wife near the rhubarb in her garden.

"Dis is it?
Dis is da snake?
Oh, fer Chris’ sake!”

The Old Man tried charm,
then stomp and storm
but Gordy never budged
just smiled and shook his head
knew no such word as “refund”
so we left in a bustle.

Ten minutes down the road,
“Eight bucks, fer Chris’ sake.”
This time spoken sadly in setback
but I knew the Old Man would rally
around a tale,
growing with the passing miles
to a ding dang dazzler for his mates at the mill.

10/29/2005

Author's Note: Genus: Slobus Americana

Posted on 10/29/2005
Copyright © 2026 David Hill