Rattling cage bars, mimicking
obscene gestures, they fling food bowls
until mystery bits splatter everywhere.
No meditation of careful posturing on hung rope
consoles the Bonobos, bereft of vines to cling to.
The Bonobos don’t care if their screeching is useless,
their enclosure designed by important scientists
with innovative ideas on recreating environment.
They don’t care if attendants minister to whim,
parading khaki nursemaids.
They feel enslavement and resent, bitterly,
wanting out among high branches: to leap,
to groom one another away from crowds
picking itches from parted black coats.
The Bonobos don’t care about my errands,
now fifteen minutes late for an appointment
to have my teeth cleaned.
They search for loose bars or likely grates.
They search for escape until they die.
I have so much to do. It’s gotten late.
Their enclosure holds no answers,
but I can’t look away—
They seem so driven toward freedom.
So familiar. So sad.