Aileron 

It’s 100 degrees outside and humid
Sitting in an air conditioned lobby is flimsy relief
I know the hot wet breath of the concrete city
Is waiting for me beyond the doors
Waiting to blow in my face and rob my breath

Leaving the table I wander further into the building
Picking my way through a plexiglass forest
Lions lunge after a wildebeest
A reclining otter and stern orangutan match my gaze

I scale across the branches of this grand family tree
My closest cousins stare back through blank black marble eyes
Heavy brows and wide smiles betray snickers
They’re laughing at us from the other side of the punchline
Not that we think we’re the first
Their laughing because we think we’re at the top of something

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Old Ireland”)