to make up for my silence, somewhat, a poem

It needs more, another stanza at least, but here it is so far:

THE ALLIGATOR MAN IS DEAD

The alligator man's widow, dressed
in plain clothes, dark, as near to black
as she has, is this year framed
by the world's fattest woman, and Henry, whose
twin slopes headless from his chest. The
bearded lady keeps looking at her, their
bunks, I have seen, are neighbors and
Major Mite says they talk at night and
I have separated them.