I Think Of The Chimp, The One

I Think Of The Chimp, The One With The Talking Hands. In The Course Of The Experiment, That Chimp Had A Baby. Imagine How Her Trainers Must Have Thrilled When The Mother, Without Prompting, Began To Sign Her Newborn. Baby, Drink Milk. Baby, Play Ball. And When The Baby Died, The Mother Stood Over The Body, Her Wrinkled Hands Moving With Animal Grace, Forming Again And Again The Words: Baby, Come Hug, Baby Come Hug, Fluent Now In The Language Of Grief.

I Sleep With A Glass Of Water On The Nightstand So I Can See By Its Level If The Coastal Earth Is Trembling Or If The Shaking Is Still Me.

I Told Him About The Way They Get To Know You. Not The Way People Do, The Way They Flatter You By Wanting To Know Every Last Thing About You, Only It Isn't A Compliment, It Is Just Efficient, A Person Getting More Quickly To The End Of You. Correction - Dogs Do Want To Know Every Last Thing About You. They Take In The Smell Of You, They Know From The Next Room, Asleep, When A Mood Settles Over You. The Difference Is There's Not An End To It.

I Think Of The Chimp, The One With The Talking Hands.

I Would Like To Go For A Ride With You, Have You Take Me To Stand Before A River In The Dark Where Hundreds Of Lightning Bugs Blink This Code In Sequence: Right Here, Nowhere Else! Right Now, Never Again!