Autobiography
An autobiography of a lizard should contain
lizard reflections: reminiscences, confessions
daydreams. One morning the lizard said,
“All right, Uncle Baxter, I’ll get my stuff.”
The next moment, perched on Uncle Baxter’s
shoulder, the lizard watched as Uncle Baxter
handled a crane; a big ball on a chain
crumbled a stone wall. Then there was the time
the lizard and Uncle Baxter relaxed at St. Kitts
in palm shade, a view of turquoise water,
Uncle Baxter in a lounge, tall green drink
in hand, lost in War and Peace; the lizard
slithered along motes of a sandcastle kids
had built then abandoned. An autobiography
of a lizard should contain the lizard’s preferred
bowling team, it’s preferred soup and rainforest.
Uncle Baxter had a German Shepherd, Lucky,
the lizard didn’t like; when the lizard, crossing
a room, made eye contact with the dog
it looked like it wanted to kill him. The lizard
lived across the street from Uncle Baxter.
When Lucky got old, Uncle Baxter helped
the dog up the stairs. That ended. Uncle
was sad but the lizard couldn’t share in that.
Uncle was alone in that dark hour, smoking
a cigarette, looking out a window. One day
Uncle Baxter took the lizard into the city of neon
lights, names on marquees, honking taxi cabs.
Messengers in long coats scuttled across
an avenue. The lizard wondered what they
were delivering, what was in the messages.
Another day Uncle Baxter took the lizard
to a place of rocks and shadows, and
shouted something only the lizard could hear.
There was no one around, no one for miles.