Primates

It’s three in the morning, you’re gone
and a man in a gorilla suit
is running across my lawn
Quigley yelps and yaps, runs in loops
The light from McKevitt’s window flickers
on then off—he doesn’t see the clown

stumbling and flopping about on the dark grass
trying not to step on the little black dog
nipping at his paw,  pulling at the plush love-handles
of his unwieldy suit— its zipper
just visible in the blue moonlight.
I pace at the window.  Hoping he will leave

I pace some more and fumble
at the nightstand for a cigarette.
I beat my chest hoping that this absurd
monster will see me—I grunt,
I grunt and think he will understand.
He doesn’t and collapses near the shed.

Quigley guards over him, cocking his head
thinking this monkey’s me gone mad,
sopped in booze.  He licks the
vinyl face.  I get under the cold sheets
I toss, I turn cursing the damned ape
I hit snooze until I’m sure he’s gone

This has been going on for weeks:
I beat my chest and show my teeth,
I pace the dark room, smoking, thinking
of buying a Doberman or a tranquilizer gun
Nothing works.  I can’t shake this monkey
from my back.

There’s a monkey on my back. Maybe
it’s a chimp on my shoulder and that’s why
I was such a hard human to live with.
Or it could be a bonobo that upsets me so
a clever hominid to be sure, but bonobo
habits die hard, you know?