Shooting Zoo, The

American Poetry Review, The, Mar/Apr 2008 by Lux, Thomas

The giraffe can't stand up anymore: he's still tall

but not tall enough. The silverback is bald,

the zebra's black stripes gray. There's a virus at the zoo: the spring

bok can't prong,

the alligators wracked by cataracts,

the last lion meowles like an Auntie's cat.

The penguins walk like they have a load in their pants!

The vultures are eating sandwiches and plants!

Something's wrong with all the animals: the pandas obstreperous,

the iguanas demand bananas, the loons

are out of tune.

What to do, what to do? Soon,

whatever it is that's deranging them,

will pass through their bars,

across their moats,

and then: our dogs and gold-

fish, the little parakeet

who pecks our lips

so we may say it kisses us, soon

they'll start dropping too.

Next: oxu: children? grandma?

The zookeepers don't know what to do

so print some permits permitting men

to bring their guns to the shooting zoo.