penguins

        penguins

        what is it about

        penguins?

        well, for one thing, they name, and illustrate,

        that pocket-book collection I have often browsed,

        for another, their clumsy, charlottesque walk,

        the fact that they are birds, and yet

        cannot fly,

        the way I played the bad penguin, and scared the shit

        out of my nephew, or nieces, or godson,

        and then got them to kiss me so that I became

        the harmless good penguin,

        our walking among them, and their nests, after being ferried

        to a small island full of them by one of the Bridges girls,

        or bused to their beaches,

        in the Patagonia,

        now two penguins, walking away on the snow hand

in hand, or, rather, wing

in wing (you

        and me),

        tell my facebook pals it’s me talking,

        and I get them, in all their commercial aspects,

        at Christmas

        (and Mónica, for my 51st birthday, using a hard-boiled egg,

black olives

and some carrot,

made a salad

        that drew one wonderful

chick)