This is not good. But it’s done. Take that, November.
A Day at the New Zoo
The town spent years, forced a spring
where there was no water, watched
their children age before shopping mall
photographers until it was finished.
Baboons dance on a grand rock, and
each bus or car that approaches can see
them from the lot, their bare buttocks
beacons for children and giggling boys.
Girls crowd toward the enclosures, coward
their way back to the road as the gorilla
charges the glass, his hands, his nostrils,
his musk much too familiar for comfort.
Days are best to see the dolphins, but end
your evening with the hippos, their jaws
like treasure chests lined in pink velvet.
Dream of those dancing ones from Fantasia,
imagine yourself in the cradle of that wide
mouth, invisible to the world in its closed
jaws. Wake up safe in your own bed, still
smelling of dung and swamp and sweet spit.