I went to the zoo on a Tuesday,
the kind of day that has already decided
not to distinguish itself.
A map was pressed into my hand,
bright as a promise,
though I knew I would ignore it
and wander the way I always do,
from enclosure to enclosure,
like a thought losing interest in itself.
The lions were asleep,
which seemed fair,
given the effort required to be a lion.
Their ribs rose and fell
behind a moat and a sign reminding me
not to feed them
my sandwiches
or my ideas about freedom.
A giraffe leaned its neck
over a fence,
a punctuation mark
at the end of a very tall sentence.
I admired the way it chewed,
slowly, deliberately,
as if nothing else
were scheduled for the afternoon.
At the primate house
a chimp stared back at me
with a look that suggested
we had met before—
perhaps in an office,
I felt briefly superior,
then embarrassed by that feeling,
then distracted by a child
dropping popcorn like breadcrumbs
for a life not yet lost.
The cages were clean,
educational,
lined with plaques explaining
habitat, diet, lifespan—
everything except
what it feels like
to watch people pass all day,
holding maps, phones, hands.
Somewhere between the zebras
and the gift shop
it occurred to me
that I too live within boundaries
I no longer notice.
A schedule,
a few acceptable moods,
rooms I return to nightly
and call home.
No bars, exactly—
just the hours
waiting for me.
