Mr. Zookeeper Meets His Maker

“Mr. Zookeeper,” they shout.

“Mr. Zookeeper, look here.”

“Mr. Zookeeper! Mr. Zookeeper!”

Mr. Zookeeper caged, flashing green eyes 

that once had children running to hide. 

Mr. Zookeeper squatting by his tin shack, 

head in hands while being laughed at.

“Mr. Zookeeper, dance for us.”

“Mr. Zookeeper, fart for us.”

“Mr. Zookeeper, shuffle like a Snuffleupagus.”

Mr. Zookeeper looks at the children with those razor thin eyes, his blood boils, the tufts of hair on his back, rise. He grinds his rotting teeth, clenches his bony fists, flicks his cracked leather tongue, letting a roar fling from his gums. 

Mr. Zookeeper’s children step back with a shriek.

“Mr. Zookeeper. Mr. Zookeeper.”

“Mr. Zookeeper, do it again,” 

sensing his worth, he digs his crooked toes into the earth. 

Mr. Zookeeper lunges at his fans. 

Mr. Zookeeper plunges to the dirt. 

Mr. Zookeeper’s children gasp and shout “more,” 

but the man splayed like a fan never gets off the floor.