During zoo hours
most beasts slump over desks,
sluggish and lethargic,
oblivious
to their keepers’ attempts
to preserve the species.
Apathetic
cud-chewing camels
stare through
the morning lessons
while a pair of chipmunks
in the back row
precariously
pick and poke
the sleeping grizzly
in the corner.
An overly cheerful peacock or
a howler monkey
who forgot his meds
occasionally
breaks the morning monotony
with a sudden outburst of joy
(or fear)
at the predator
in the next aisle
two seats behind.
Whinnies and trumpets and chatter
escalate toward a climax
when the cages open
for feeding time—
a mixture of musk
and manure
and mealtime manners
cut loose into the hallways.
Glassy-eyed gators and
pathetically overstuffed pythons
attempt to absorb
more than their lunch
after they return to their
artificial biomes
and four-walled
habitats.
Heads still in the clouds,
the giraffes
are oblivious to the
pack of hyenas
scheming,
waiting to prey on the weak
and young
and insecure.
Late afternoon
a troop of gorillas
stirs from docility
(and civility)
with occasional grunts
and thumps
and bumps—
and the animals
escape their enclosures,
the more timid creatures
slinking away
to take their chances with vipers
and other venomous bottom dwellers
in the undergrowth.
But even the most
(semi-)
ferocious lions—
with their voice-cracking,
deep-throated growls
and their whiskers,
and their bared claws—
reach out.
Inside
they are just
overgrown kittens
hiding behind wisps of manes
craving
individual attention
and a scratch
behind the ears.
*This came from a brainstorm I had after taking my own kids to the zoo. I wrote the 1st draft while sitting in a reading endorsement class.
No comments:
Post a Comment