He squats on the tarmac
nose a bit flat
joints a little big
from walkin' fro and back.
He studies the clouds:
the hairs on his head
were aubergine, but, sunlit, now,
sulci wide and deep
like the moat
between Dives and Lazarus.
He imitates the boys
who imitate him
Once he flung poo
at them, he did, but they
deserved it, they did-
didn't they, hey?
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Comments about this poem (Gorilla by Morgan Michaels )
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