3518. RUNNING THROUGH THE ZOO

RUNNING THROUGH 
THE ZOO

I get to hold this inattention in my hands. I mark off

nothing but the ropes and the barriers. The ever-cute

mark of the orangutan daisy, the splendid pea-shot

of the panda. Everywhere I look, the scene is of something

else, something I'd forgotten from long-ago. The Central

Park Zoo of 1966  -  when the piss smell shot through

the animal smell and mixed its mingle with an African swell.

Lions sweating in tiny concrete cages, and the seal-fellows,

swimming in slop on the rim of steel. All those pathetic

light bulbs and the grizzled guys with the feeder carts,

throwing hunks of red meat to the tigers and leopards,

panthers and cats. I wanted to swim in the tide, back

then, of what I thought was the greater-than-big great

big world. Savannah, marsh and mountaintop; all of

it together in one easy loop. Back then Asia was

only a place where strange animals dwelt, and a

Puma was a name with a very exciting flavor.