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Slurring at the Elephant in the Room
How many times have we met? I don't have thick skin
if I were to come under the needle of a vet;
barf would linger on clothes that aren't yet washed
down by the hose of a zoo attendant.
The span of your ears sweeping back the stench
I exude with perspiration, thanks, elephant.
My rumbly gut on your gut, your rotund barrel
takes us over Niagara Falls.
A cold, yet steamy mist can exit rage.
A friendliness plummets over me where I stand
too drunk to squirm and go visit my girl.
I turn and want to unlatch my cage, bar
pressing my nose to what might be in store
not ready to eat hay nor sleep on the floor,
grateful that your prehensile
trunk can reach in the fridge and snag a beer.
Copyright ©
Barthwell Farmer
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