The Giraffe

wanders the night, head
lowered, lurking in sprawling
It glides along–long-legged, long-
faced–dips its neck & slips past

the forlorn monkey
bars & swing-less swing set. Up
the wooded hillock,
parked cars hump to “Yeah! Oh Yeah!”
A foot juts out an unrolled

glass, ankle bracelet
jangling. Flickering headlights
pass through dark, trembling
leaves. You can’t see the giraffe
slumped behind a butterfly

bush, watching, listening
for the sake of national
security. For
you might be a terrorist.
We might all be terrorists.

[Note: "The Giraffe" originally appeared in Rose Red Review (sadly, its site's no longer up), where it was nominated for Best of the Net. The poem also appears in my 2nd full-length collection, Walking in Chicago with a Suitcase in My Hand, published by Knut House Press (also, sadly, now defunct).]