The forest path is empty; and
the tourist hubbub mute. Lay’s,
biscuits, banana chips, peanuts…
These monkeys lose the alms
from visitors. Yet they enjoy
the lockdown on the romantic
boughs without sanitizers and
masks. They foresee rain before
it kisses sand. Their infants are
beatific within cuddle and care.
They don’t perforate the roof of
the earth. Genocide and lynching
are unknown to them. Never
destructive, ever-serene, they
live and leave. I must mistrust
the monkey lineage of man.
First published in The Literary Hatchet.
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