King Snake

King Snake
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"So, what do you remember of me," I ask my dad,
Holding the microphone in his direction.

"Well, Jim," he fidgets, fingering his chin and the glassy air
That glistens by his skin, "I just can't remember much of anything...
Working all the time and all."

I gaze into the void that he has spread out on the table...
Dark, chilled ... quivering in confusion.

A coiled landscape twists gauntly
In the shadows and I see the worry gather in the faces of parents
Breathing in the stormy night beyond the headlights.

I remember a small flood in the road --
Mud splattering brown on the windows streaked with water webs.
A house rises ...
And there it is ... the snake ... long as my father ...

That man, who can't remember, is chasing the night streak.

I asked if he can remember the snake he chased away.
The snake that lumbered heavily in my eyes, just below the skin.

"No, not that one...but those snakes?" he lilted into a question, "they're called King snakes, because they were brought here from some other country by the King ranch to kill the rattlers."

He didn't remember...exactly...
But he did remember the King snakes.

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