STEALTH AND MOTIVE
The giraffe in the corner watches - I see him with
one eye, the sort of a cubist fantasy picture : flat
face, everything twisted and on one side. The light
from overhead, skylit, provided by the city, a Central
Park park's service enticement, splashes down on everything.
It's all so weird. The tired monkeys spray, picking like
strangers at dull, brown bananas. The jaguar slinks low,
along the ground, like a detective or a thief. A lion slumbers,
a few sheep, a tiger - a veritable meat stew from an
insane TV chef from Hell. I want to wince, as I wince
at captivity, and sadness and sorrow. This all hurts.
-
Should I not turn away? And leave this jungle of
hurt, bundled and packed, in its own little bubble :
the square rooms of a zoo, the intense, stuffed arena
of animals and Nature and their vital elan of all things
beholden : now captured and stolen, kept in a pattern
so others may watch - the centurion from Dubuque,
those family guys from Phoenix or Maine, the
happy couple from Stealth and Motive.
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