The Munich Silverback

He squats in his haunches, his home                                 
          A hillock of grass,
A deep trench,
          Reinforced glass
Between him and where his eyes may only roam.

Intimidated glares at the crowd,
          Long perusals of his fist, sky,
A black leather finger
          Explores a nostril, rubs an eye.
Under heavy brows mulls a mind cowed

By long, loud days.  Only at night is he assured
          Of privacy, of fitful sleep.
His mate sits on a dead trunk
          Peering over her shoulders at crowds three deep.
No prisoner, star, no monarch has ever endured

The million-eyed
          Thing they wait for every morning;
                                          The grating sound of locks
Opening, minds closing in
          Herald the hunter who mocks
From safe behind the glass plates other side.

These two on the hillock are my mirror,  my mime.
          Our days a constant swarm
Of fans dissecting us.
          We squat musing on what harm
We've done to earn this, musing on what crime.

© R.G. Bishop