Something is wrong. Terribly wrong.
The hammerhead shark in the northeast tank
is swimming in circles upside down.
The Chief Zoologist must be told.
After every fourth step,
your badger does a somersault—may I recommend
prozac to control such compulsions?
When full extension of the neck is curtailed,
what giraffes require is glucosamine sulphate.
Attend to this matter without delay.
And that dog has a boner the size of his head.
It’s called terminal sexual hyperaesthesia.
His fate is sealed if you don’t save him.
And that’s not all.
The brakes must be stuck on that 747:
alert ground control for a maintenance check.
All around there’s so much to do.
Manners to improve, factions to merge,
rivers to dredge, black holes to fill:
It’s a full-time job
armed only with a standard bucket of spackle
and Marsden Hartley’s palette knife.
We perform miracles. Yet,
through the wallboard seeps a visceral leak.
A hand breaks through the taped seam.
We do what we can.