by Bob Bradshaw
Family trips to the zoo
inevitably lead to Pachyderm House.
My daughter Katie steers Grandmother
in her wheel chair right up
to the rail
where Grandmother leans over waving
with Katie and my wife
to the ‘old girls’ as if they were relatives
whom they haven’t seen in years.
Katie’s favourite is always the newest baby
in her baggy pants, shuffling around,
swinging her trunk.
When elephants age their thick skin
takes on deep wrinkles. Arthritis
flares in worn out knees.
Nails crack and molars
split like stones.
Yet they always have each other–
An old cow becomes confused,
and a younger one gently leads her
to the group’s watering hole.
In the wild elephants will even stop at a spot
where a family member died
years before,
the females becoming as sentimental
as old ladies holding babies,
touching tenderly their daughters
and sisters and aunts
with their long
hands.
Bob lives in California, a state drifting slowly towards Asia. Bob is reading Asian poetry and studying the Japanese Tea Ceremony in preparation for the docking. His work can be found at Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Eclectica, Slow Trains and many other publications.
