Ode to a Waxed Gibbon


Entreat me not, I pray,
to come sit with you on the fence –
for its thorns are much too bristly,
and your rabbit ears disturb me.
Hide all you will, behind the drifting fluff,
and seek the company of crows;
or loiter in the limbs of an indifferent pylon
to peek, furtive as the cloistered nun.
But, entreat me not, I pray:
I know your game cannot be won.