My invitation to the Women’s Club
Choux in the Zoo event was obligatory.
Philistine to leave my name off the list.

Breakfast in the Elephant House;
not all pachyderms are adorned in gray.
One wears ill-fitting Anna Sui, sports
an alligator purse. Of course, she means
no insult to hippopotamus or reptile.
Comrades pair bond; I, the ostracized ostrich,

slip unnoticed from my social group;
sip Earl Grey tea with mellow Mandara,
a lowland gorilla at the Ape House.
I’ve brought her favorite picture book,
“Gorilla Walk,” by the Lewins;
hold it against the glass so she can see.
We are careful never to look each other
directly in the eye; she signals when to turn
the page with a brusque hand flick.

White-cheeked gibbons live up to their name.
Kwame is in fine form; today he screams
as if he means it. I draw in a large breath,
prepare for blitzkreig. I yell, “eeh-eeeh-ooh-oooh-
ooooooh-eeeh-eeeeeh-waaaah-ooh-oooooh-oooooooh”;
mimic his aggressive posture, complete with knuckle-drag.
Midway through our second barrage,
my phylum of chordates catches up to me.

“Well, I never!” snoots Ms. Pachyderm.
“Well I never, either,” I volley, “at least
not until now. He had it coming, you know.”