MR. AND MRS. P. AND THE SADNESS OF ANIMALS

Nobody will touch the old zoo. Because of the rats.

—anonymous Internet user

They’ve been there so many times. In their childhood

and that of their children. And now some other children

would like to go there with them. They grab their hands

and drag them to the iron gate,

beyond which even work doesn’t

set one free. A miniature horse tack and a harness

adorned with ribbons instead of iron bars and a brass plate—

the ponies staring vacantly at the ground

don’t notice the difference. The zebras

crowd in the cramped paddock,

the soiled storks stand on one leg, and when dusk

aproaches the tray of leftover food,

they’d gladly raise the other leg, too.

The authorities turn a blind eye

to what happens here. This wobbly equilibrium,

they explain to their confidants, is nonetheless a success.

The district sleeps peacefully, rarely

awakened by the screams of a frightened animal.

Day, with the loud crowds, the light and the caretaker

in tall leather boots,

spells salvation for the animals. They’re glad

to pose for pictures and be fed junk.

Somewhere on the outskirts of the city, in its green lungs,

in the valley with a clear stream,

the huge cages rust away.

A cat chases its own tail

along the endless paddocks. And the director’s wife

spreads her fat thighs before the majesty of the sun.