Thinking Of Her
Tarzan moves to the city studies law becomes a lawyer.
He cuts his hair too! gets a job at a high powered firm;
being King of the Jungle looks good on a resume.
He adapts no longer wears a ragged raw-hide thong,
no longer swings to destinations—there are no vines
in the city—he walks, rides the bus, takes a cab
like everyone else. Sometimes, Tarzan can be found
stooped on a barstool rehashing bare-fist brawls
with albino tigers, often ripping his suit off to show the scars.
It always ends badly stripped from the walls eighty-six’ed
from another watering hole. The walks home hit
the hardest—night canopies the city—there are no stars
in this reoccurring reality: he is alone. And with his eighty-
proof breath, his face caught in both palms, he whispers
her name, feels her warmth slip again through his fingers,
as they, only words, hit cold air and dissolve like butane.
