All
day he shoveled dung at the zoo. A life viewed through cages and
bars. Wore too much Aqua Velva for his young wife's asthma. She still
remembered him, Mountain-high, on that lifeguard tower. The salty/cocoa
butter scent of him in the sheets. The elephants, he'd told
her. Christ!—the elephants... She was humming a tune from a
TV commercial which had stuck in her head. He asked her to stop. There was a
roast in the oven, a canary making a racket in the sunroom, their toddler
forming an army of wide-jawed alligator clothespins. He got up and reached
for the remote sprouting from between the couch cushions where she sat.
Leaned close and plucked it out like a radish. Sat back in his Lazy
Boy. She coughed.
Robert
Scotellaro
Insects Are Just Like You and Me Except Some of Them Have Wings
Kuzhali Manickavel