the warsaw zoo in time of war
the night after the bombing is quiet.
ruin hangs on the neighborhood like smoke
in the basement of a building that has only
now caught fire.
across the street, the polish children
are bringing home milk, eggs, cheese
unbelievable riches, storybook things
that we do not have.
I am sitting at the window
even though mother told me not to.
Outside, a giraffe stumbling down the street
why not. its path is a confused question mark
scrawled in blood, looming crooked and silent
like a bad dream.