Ecological Poem

Around the pool the hippos drool

as if the chloride wouldn’t kill them.

In fact, they like to play the fool,

the harbinger, the pilgrim.

The bird that plops into the glass

makes a sound, then isn’t there.

Spiders toss, in oleaginous mass,

Goo Gone into the air.

The ants that drag a beat-up car

onto the lawn are emissaries

of some forgotten prince or tsar

from an HBO miniseries.

The cheetah, panther, jaguar, and lynx

(some of these might be the same)

conjure images of Sphinx

and other trademarked names.

The dynamited hole now teems

with insects shiny and obscene,

crawling, dying, though it dreams

an ectoplasm of green.

My own two cats stiffen, confused

at this profusion past the door.

They bat at things they’ve often used

for sound therapy before.

I tell you this out of principle:

that spiraling around a theme

(while naming lots of animals)

can supercharge a meme.

My own skin founders in the rush

of allergenic, if cautious, beasts.

Eyes eye darkness, ears hear hush — 

the assassin’s humor feasts.