A poem from a much younger time, skidding into the now.

Fireball


At six, my uncle took me to the St. Louis Zoo and passing the waterfowl and Turacos a gorilla caught on fire. An electrical cable exploded above her head and swung through her chest shooting bright red fireballs that made the woman to my left vomit onto the plaque in front of her. The gorilla was on fire and we all watched her burn. She stood on her back legs and raised her arms out, trying to keep them safe. There were about nine of us there, including my uncle and myself. It was silent. There was the snapping of flames, a shout coming from the female zookeeper.

My uncle slung me over his shoulder and rushed away. My head bobbed up and down as he climbed over twigs and shrubs.


She hadn’t moved.

It was awful. I Saw her land on her back

Dragging mud on her heels.

The sun will respect every face on the deck, the hour the ship comes in.

I want to tell you
something short,
"I love you."

It's not
that I can't tell you in long form. I could go on and on, really.
I
can say you fill me up
with everything
I
didn't have before. You
make me believe I can sing
really
very
loud.

But that's not my style.
And it's sure as hell not yours.

So meet me in 20
and I promise
to remember your name
kind of
for always.