French Quarter Fables by Dalt Wonk

For Ruth Forman Cohen,my mother,

a source of encouragement and love and a great sport her whole life through.

I will always remember her making the turkey dance for us,

climbing the stairs on stilts and doing “The shuffle off to Buffalo”.

FRENCH QUARTER

FABLES

byDALT WONK

Acknowledgements:

Some of these fables were published previously by Julian Mutter, under his imprint “Temperance Hall”, New Orleans.

A special thanks to the talented sculptor and my longtime friend Ersy, who lent me her studio. And, of course, to my exacting muses, Josephine and Iris, for their patience and inspiration.

Published in the United States of America in 2012 by

Luna Press, LLC813 Ursulines StreetNew Orleans, La, 70116www.lunapress.com

ISBN: 978-0-615-66635-8

© 2012 LUNA PRESS, LLC

© 2012 DALT WONK

Book Creative Director: Jacqueline MiroBook Designer: Erin Knutson

All rights reserved.No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior consent from the publisher.

Printed and Bound in Iceland by ODDI Printing CorporationReykyavik, Iceland

CONTENTSAuthor’s Preface

FRENCH QUARTER FABLES

THE IMPULSIVE SWALLOW 1

THE ROOT & THE FLOWER 7

THE RABBIT & THE POODLE 13

THE CATERPILLAR & THE ANT 19

THE SALMON & THE CATFISH 25

THE ROOSTER & THE SWAN 33

THE FROG & THE LIZARD 39

KING TURTLE & MISS DONKEY 45

THE COMIC DUO 51

MISS DACHSHUND WALKS HOME 57

THE HIPPO & THE EGRET 63

THE BUTTERFLY & THE ROACH 69

THE AFGHAN & THE ALLIGATOR 75

THE YOUNG TREE & THE HURRICANE 81

THE QUEEN BEE & THE GRIZZLY BEAR 87

THE WASP & THE SPIDER 93

THE LONG SUFFERING MULE 99

THE MALAMUTE & THE SEAL 105

THE EGRET & THE CATFISH 111

THE PIG & THE VULTURE 117

THE TURTLE & THE NEWT 123

THE SNAKE & THE MOUSE 129

THE MINNOW & THE PIKE 135

THE DINOSAUR & THE ALLIGATOR 141

THE PUMA & THE CAT 147

THE BUTTERFLY & THE ROSE 153

THE MOUSE TRAP 159

THE FROG & THE SUMMER RAIN 165

THE PIGEON & THE MOCKINGBIRD 171

THE FISH & THE LEECH 177

THE LEVEE RAT & THE KITTEN 183

THE HIBISCUS & THE FERN 189

THE THOROUGHBRED & THE MUTT 195

THE EAGLE & HIS CHICK 201

THE TERMITE & THE TREE TRUNK 209

THE TADPOLE & THE GOLDFISH 215

THE WEED & THE HUMMINGBIRD 221

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

Most of my life, I’ve been a writer. Of plays, in particular. They’ve been produced in small theaters here and there — New York, London, New Orleans and elsewhere. How did I come to create a book of illustrated fables in verse? I suppose the simplest and most honest answer (though it’s somewhat demeaning) is the delight I get from little animals wearing clothes.

This curious form of delight is more wide-spread than you might think. Not long ago, in the French Quarter, where I’ve lived for more than 30 years, someone started up a new Mardi Gras parade called “Barkus”. People dress up their dogs in costumes and parade down the street. This addition to Carnival was an immediate hit and has grown into a major event. So I guess I’m not the only one who loves animals wearing clothes. Of course, there’s more to fables than beasts dressing like people. And while I’d like to cite lofty precedents like the animal-headed Gods of ancient Egypt, I imagine the truth has more to do with the persistence of childhood.

The French Quarter, as many of you probably know, is the historic center of New Orleans. I landed here (in a freighter, no less) after ten years of wandering, mostly in Europe. I was charmed by the place and have become an “adopted native”. The first series of fables was, in a sense, my love letter to the French Quarter. The animals, flowers and insects are almost all Quarter denizens and they appear in their natural habitat: a frog in his courtyard lily pond, a rat in the stone rip-rap on the Mississippi River levee and a roach in the kitchen of a restaurant. Gradually, I enlarged the geographic scope of the fables to include far-off lands like the Yukon and exotic animals like Hippos. But I’ve kept the title French Quarter Fables, since the majority take place there and, in any case, all of them were written there and are no doubt influenced by its singular, suggestive atmosphere.

The characters in a fable — those odd, polymorphous beings like love-sick frogs and penny-pinching Afghans —are not just disguised human beings. The animal part of their nature is also real. That duality, that link in the great chain of being, is, I think, one of the hidden depths of the fable.

A book of fables worthy of the name is actually a book of aphorisms. What we call a moral is simply an aphorism. The word “moral” is unfortunate in that it calls up the idea of didacticism, which is a great “no-no” these days. A fable is a short narrative, usually limited to two (and rarely more than three) characters. For me, the whimsical mood goes well with the artificiality of verse. The moral should come somewhat as a surprise and evoke a feeling of agreement along the lines of: “ain’t it the truth.”

In a sense, each fable gives birth to a single, simple observation in the same way a plant gives birth to a flower. The moral, as I see it, should resemble a flower in another way: it should not be predictable from the stem, but once seen, it should be felt to be a fitting culmination.

Every culture seems to have its backlog of fables. I am ignorant of most of them. The two most prominent in the West, I suppose, are Aesop and La Fontaine. Not much is known about Aesop. He was said to be a Greek slave in the 6th or 5th century B. C., who was given his freedom because of his intelligence. Perhaps his fables played a part in this emancipation. At any rate, he either wrote or collected (or both) a batch of folk fables that are still reprinted and retold — making him one of the best represented of ancient authors. “Sour grapes”, after all, is still a common rejoinder. Aesop’s characters have a general feel and do not seem tied to a particular social structure. His death is said to have resulted from an insulting fable he told while on a diplomatic mission to Delphi. He was thrown off a cliff. Spinning fables, apparently, is not without its dangers.

La Fontaine lived in 17th century France under Louis XIV, The Sun King. His fables often reflect the hierarchical structure of that monarchy, with the Lion on top, surrounded by his aristocratic courtiers. Here again, one can see the durability of fables. Once in my days as a journalist, I did a story about two French-speaking Africans who had stowed away on a cargo ship that they thought was bound for Marseille.

Unfortunately, they were wrong. They disembarked stealthily somewhere in Florida! Their story was fascinating. All the authority figures who would have been villains in a movie seem to have been good-natured and helpful, even the Southern sheriff who first rounded them up. But the point of the story in terms of fables is that these uneducated Africans quoted La Fontaine to me. “La raison du plus fort est toujours la meilleure.” — which might be translated roughly as “the argument of the more powerful is always right” or “the stronger is always the one who’s right”. There was no question, of course, who was the most powerful in Louis XIV’s Versailles. The French Quarter Fables deal with contemporary characters and situations. The society is a capitalist democracy (with all the benefits and faults that implies). Sometimes, I drew on events I observed in nature, like the maddening insistence of our pet cat for chasing the swallows who nested in our chimney. Sometimes, I drew on people I knew, like a preservationist matron who was forever in a rage against developers or even my own daughter who would certainly have danced with a hurricane, during her adolescence. Ultimately, I suppose these fables are an odd type of short-short stories. They are not meant for edification, but pleasure.

Dalt WonkNew Orleans, May 2012

THE IMPULSIVE SWALLOW

3

She snuggled her childrenand put them to bed.

Then she went to her roomand she lay down her head.

The day was behind her.Tomorrow would keep.

And her mind drifted offon a soft wave of sleep.

But she woke in the darkness.“Where am I?” she cried.And she felt a dull pang

that stirred deep down inside.

In its tangle of branches,the moon seemed to throb.

And the voice of a saxophonepleaded and sobbed.

Each night around midnight,he’d come improvise.

Each night, he would watch —with those same burning eyes.

She’d preen by the windowto show her contempt.

But she couldn’t help hearing,and she wasn’t exempt.

So she slicked back her wingsand she fluffed out her tail

and she walked out and leanedon the gallery rail.

And the night air was fragrantand the sky full of stars.

She walked out and listenedand let down her guard.

The children woke up.They ran straight to her room.

It was empty as moonlightand still as a tomb.

Just a breeze from the window —a feather in flight —

and the wail of a saxophonelost in the night.

4

Before you give in to the music, consider the source.

5

THE ROOTand

THE FLOWER

9

All summer long, through sun and storm,the Root went stoically from task to task,

wearing the ragged dress she’d always worn,as though arrayed for some unhappy tryst

with the God of drudgery.What sentiments lay masked

beneath her unremitting apathy,no one knew and no one thought to ask.

For, to the pampered creatures she attended,lounging through their languid matinées,

drinking highballs of nectar in verdant negligées,the old crone seemed hardly to exist.

Perhaps because she was a bleak reminder,despite the ingenious efforts they expended,

time would not slow down or treat them kinder —misgivings which are easily comprehendedsince all their ease and elegance depended

on keeping their looks. For this disgruntled Rootwas chambermaid in a house of ill repute.

And while she passed her time in menial chores,making up the beds or mopping floors,

she recited to herself an angry listof ways she’d been exploited and abused,of paltry favors that she’d been refused,

and sacrifices that went unrewarded.In short, she spent the day consumed by resentment.

And, though in fairness, this could be excused,it precluded any possible contentment

her circumstances might have afforded.

On this illicit bush, there was one bloomwho, more than all the others, had been blessed

in the physical endowments she possessed.Her soft white petals and her sweet perfume

awakened carnal visions of delightso potent she got very little rest,

for she was deluged constantly with offersof prodigal amounts to fill her coffers,in compensation for a brief romance,

from aphids, butterflies, bees, wasps and ants,frantic with the urge to pollinate.

Jasmine was her name. She bloomed at night.But this fair Flower met a tragic fate.For her career was cut off prematurely

by a psychopathic moth,who, in the parlor, accosted her demurely —

but, in bed, behaved like an Ostrogoth.He’d no sooner pounced upon her, when this satyr

revealed he had peculiar tastes and quirks,to which she stridently declined to cater

in a torrent of words not found in lexicons.Undismayed, he tried to obligate her.

She struggled free. She screamed. He went berserkand beat her pretty head in with a bronze.

In a moldy chamber of the cellarthe Root, who had just woken up for work,

heard sirens, shouts and muddled sounds of panic,and raced upstairs to join the other dwellers

(who, strange to say, looked almost puritanic,clinging to one another in their fright).

But when her eyes fell on the grisly sight,she said, with smile that was practically satanic:“You had it coming, Bitch! It serves you right!”

10

11

The misfortunes of those we envy seem like justice.

THE RABBIT and

THE POODLE

The Rabbit’s eyes were dazzled by the lights, gleaming in lurid colors on the stage,

that only made the darkened room seem darker. He might have fled right then, except the barker,

with a jovial shove, propelled him further in, as though coaxing a timid pet into a cage. But after all, he was out to see the sights,

since this would be his one night on the town — and a voice announced the show would soon begin —

so he stumbled to a chair and he sat down. A roll of drums brought on “The Famous Poodle”

with her shapely midriff and her curly locks. But the more he watched, the more he grew perplexed,

for he could have sworn she tendered him a wink, as she crossed the stage in leaps and arabesques,

some of which were quite unorthodox. And she seemed like the sweetest thing he’d ever met,

when after the show she joined him tête-à-tête and said with a smile that made resistance futile:

“Be a sport and buy a girl a drink.”And what a thrill it was to realize

this lovely creature found him fascinating, for when he spoke, she hung on every word

like someone who was being hypnotized. Her admiration was intoxicating —

for she’d propose some sentimental toast, then quickly bolt down each new round he bought her

(which wasn’t hard, since hers were mostly water). But when his eyes were glazed and speech was slurred,

and his shirt was stained and his tie was in a gnarl, she emptied out his wallet with a snarl

and wandered off to find a fresh new host.

15

The friendship of a hypocrite is a prelude to betrayal.

16

THE CATERPILLARand

THE ANT

The Caterpillar always took his mealsat his accustomed table on the veranda,

punctually at the accustomed hour.A salad of assorted leaves and flowers —

in precisely the proportions that he wished —would appear unbidden,

with a display of sycophantic zealas though the Maitre D’ and all his staffhad been informed by secret memoranda.

The Maitre D’ in question was an Ant —a worker, in a sense, now out of date,

of someone whose job is also his vocation.There was an air of detachment in his stance;

of service, without a hint of degradation.His accent was foreign, but it was hard to place —

a hint of Budapest, perhaps, or else Vienna.He had a smooth, dark, inexpressive face

and sometimes risked a smile, though rarely laughed,but oh the scorn he could communicate

with a sardonic flick of the antenna,while he swept crumbs or emptied a carafe,

as though it were a theatrical demonstration.He was always impeccably groomed, was never late,

and if he had complaints, he kept them hidden.As for his home life, hobbies, or marital state,

they’d always been, and would remain, enigmas.

Within his realm, he was a potentateand he seemed not to exist outside the job.

This satisfactory arrangement lasteduntil the Gods — who treat us as their toys —

tiring perhaps of this headwaiter’s pride,sent him his nemesis: the Caterpillar,

who not only made him lose his famous poise,but rendered him so completely flabbergasted,he turned from gentle servant to savage killer,

and committed, if you will, insecticide —an occurrence, which, however disagreeable,

was certainly not hard to understand;for the old larva was sloth personified,

the heir to a fortune and a creature of leisure,who passed his days in the pursuit of pleasure

(if by “pursuit” one means a languid slidetowards whatever’s easiest at hand).

21

22

He considered gratitude undignifiedand made it a point of honor and self-assertion

— no matter how laborious the exertionsothers took to comply with his demands —

forever to remain dissatisfied.

The Caterpillar arrived at the stroke of noonon the fatal day, precisely as expected,

and as though to prove the future is unforeseeable,sat down with his habitual look of censure.

The table was set. The meal was served. And soonthe meal’s first imperfection was detected.Back to the kitchen in a constant stream

the sweating waiters scurried. While the Maitre D’with a bland smile, looked on impassively,

until the diner insisted, in a huff,the bottle of claret wasn’t up to snuff.

(This was more ludicrous than it might seemfor he’d never tasted the wine that he rejected.)“Perhaps,” replied the Ant, “but might I venture,

sir, to suggest, before you speak, you try it.”“Take it away!” the larva interjected,

“I don’t like how it looks and that’s enough!”The Caterpillar’s eyes began to gleam.

He jumped to his feet and made an unholy racket —screaming that he would never touch the stuff!

This blatant violation of procedurecaused the Ant to have a kind of seizure.Ferociously, he reached inside his jacket

for a little switchblade dipped in formic acid.His smile grew blissful and his eyes grew placid,

and he gave in to a gentle urge to gloat,as he plunged the knife in his tormentor’s throat.

Those who are impossible to please provoke rebellion.

23

THE SALMONand

THE CATFISH

The Catfish recalled the day the Salmon fled, all those many years ago,

with perfect clarity. He might already, God forbid, be dead.

Or if alive, what kind of life was he leading? Had he found whatever it was he sought?

Her mind would flow on the melancholy current of these thoughts as she reclined on the river bottom feeding.

She’d been his nurse, and known him with that deep familiarity

caring for a child alone bestows. She’d bathed him, dressed him, fed him, washed his clothes,

consoled him when he suffered a reverse and gave him refuge when he felt afraid.

But childhood, though blessed, is evanescent and once the cherished boy turned adolescent,

an evil lurked that he could not evade: the family curse!

His father and his father’s father, all his predecessors since the dawn of time

were links in one vast brutal chain of fate to which he was shackled as well.

For each young salmon, when he felt the call of some obscure primordial emotion,

resolved to seek his fortunes in the ocean. They set off with high hopes and fond farewells. But soon they all renounced these high ambitions.

Back to that same paltry stream they’d climb. And propagate.

And perish in the dark alluvial slime. None escaped this endless repetition.

27

“Pathetic old fish, to return where they were spawned!”the Salmon had shrieked to his guardian’s surprise

on that sad, long-ago day. “I’m not a pawn!Not me. I won’t submit!

And yet, how much I yearn to feel the riseand fall of massive swells in a blue abyss

whose depths are infinite.Catfish, I must go.

But I swear by all the Gods, I won’t return!”He paused to give the nurse a parting kiss, then leaped into the seaward rushing flow

and vanished down the ravine. And that was the last of him she’d ever seen.

One afternoon, as she lay pondering these sorrowful events,

a foreign traveler struggling up the stream caught her attention. A life of wandering

had left him haggard and bent. And he wore a threadbare cloak

over scales that long ago had lost their gleam. But when he spoke,

something in his voice inspired confidence: more than confidence — maternal feelings,

as though her dormant heart had just awoke.

28

“Forgive me please,” he said. “Don’t take offense.But I’m a stranger here.

And you’ve a face that’s curiously appealing.(It reminds me of someone else’s face, but whose?)

Before I lie down to my final restwhich won’t be long, I need to tell my story.

When I was young, I set out on a quest.To reach the sea. To disappear.

And never again return where I began.To break the curse and win eternal glory!

I had a plan.For every choice my father made, I’d choose

the opposite. Beyond the river’s mouth,where he’d gone North, I headed for the South.He aimed for the Pole. I’d aim for the Equator.

I avoided every inlet where he harboredand veered to Port, where he had veered to Starboard.

The opposite. Always the opposite. Only laterdid I begin to fear I might be tracing

the same path backward. I stopped and found I was facinga narrow bay,

where boulders broke white water into foam.I forced a passage here and here I’ll stay,content to die, for I’ve achieved my aim

and beat the curse!”

Oh poor deluded fish — to whom the nurse, her bleary eyes grown bright with joy, exclaimed:

“It’s you, young master! God be praised!You’re home!”

29

We all think we’re the exception when we’re young.

30

THE ROOSTERand

THE SWAN

35

Whatever the role in which she was appearing,the Swan was greeted, when the curtain fell,

with the audience on its feet in thunderous applause.How gracefully she glided across the stage;

confident, aloof and yet endearing—in trademark gowns that had a bit of gauze

(to stress her seasoned charms and hide her flaws).Though somewhat plump and “of a certain age”,

she outshone all the fair young Jezebels,in spite of their brazenness and daring,

for there was something regal in her bearing.

These thoughts commingling rapture and respect(with others less exalted intertwined

aroused by a downy curve of thigh or neck)raced helter-skelter through the Rooster’s mind,as he stood waiting beneath the stage door light,

feeling blessed by fortune, but also cursed– ecstatically happy, but wretchedly insecure –

for though he was the reigning paramour,he was – to put it lightly – not the first.

Nor would he be the last,unless he took decisive measures fast.

And tonight, he had decided, was the night.

When the Swan emerged, she found the impetuous bantamred-eyed with intensity, half crazed,

lurking in the shadows like a phantom.And when he spoke his mind, she was amazed.Was she tired of the breathless pace of glamour,

the parties, the pretense, the public and the clamor —or was it a role she’d never tried that lured her,

thinking it would either kill or cure her?Whatever the reason, in short, lest we digress,

to his proposal of marriage, she answered “yes”.

He’d won. His prayers were answered, his dreams fulfilled.He was the picture of adoring pride

— a Dante attending on his Beatrice —as he entered the poultry yard with his new bride

amidst an envious, clucking multitude,to whom the Swan was conspicuously rude.

Nor was she thrilledwith the living arrangements that her spouse had made

and expressed her disapproval with a hiss.But even worse than this,

it was his habit (as she soon surmised)to greet the daybreak operatically.

Comportment she found barely civilized!

The honeymoon was over, most emphatically.And although he tried to be ingratiating

by altering whatever made her cross,she found each new attempt infuriating —

no matter what the effort or the cost,or how degrading the means to which he stooped.

It was all in vain. One day she flew the coop.And of the high hopes he had entertained,

nothing remained,except a sense of loss and a divorce

and the wisdom that’s engendered by remorse.

36

37

No effort is great enough to make our illusions real.

THE FROGand

THE LIZARD

41

On a steamy twilight in August,Frog popped out of the pool.

He loved to take his evening stroll,once it was dark and cool.

For all throughout the heat of the day,he was forced to stay within

or the air, that was hot as an oven,would dry out his delicate skin.

He was taking some liquid refreshmentat a barroom in the vicinity,

when his eyes met the eyes of the Lizardlike dark emerald pools of infinity.

“You’ll take your ease at the water’s edge.I’ll watch you from the pool.

And join you when the sun goes downand the air is moist and cool.

For though we love each other,we can not live as one.

You’d perish in my liquid homeas I would in the sun.”

The courtyard is fragrant with blossoms.They walk down the aisle in a trance

through the flickering glow of the gas lights,through the shadows that quiver and dance.

She wears a borrowed pearl necklaceand a veil that’s blue for good luck

and a little woven coronetof flowers newly plucked.

But silently, she steals awayat the height of the celebration,

while he is laughing with some friendsand accepting congratulations.

She hurries to the lily pond —where the stars are all adrift:to join him in his elementwill be her wedding gift.

The water is as dark as coal.Her heart grows cold with fear.

“He will be so pleased,” she thinks,“when he comes and finds me here.”

But he came because he heard her cry.He came running breathlessly.

And he found a sight that made him wishhe had no eyes to see.

On the gently shimmering surface,she reclined as on a bed,

and the pale reflected moonlightmade a halo for her head.

42

43

The generosity of an impulse does not guarantee a happy result.

KING TURTLE and

MISS DONKEY

47

“There’s something aristocratic in my face,”the Turtle said to his mirror with admiration.

He saw himself applauded in his imagination

by the hordes that lined the streets to watch him pass. Or lauded

by the commentators on T V, while strutting down the carpet to his throne

amidst the court. His Majesty,

it’s true, was somewhat short. And not renowned for a balletic grace —

particularly, as he was often prone to intoxication.

And during Mardi Gras festivity, God knows, one raised a glass

. . . or two . . . or three. The Turtle, needless to say,

was the descendant of an ancient uptown family,

or he‘d never been anointed King for a Day. He owed his crown to birth, not stratagem.

In his tux and scarlet cape, he was resplendent and waved loftily to the crème de la crème —

stopping at times for a pleasantry, at the expense the peasantry.

Like his maid, Miss Donkey, who lived miles downriver

in a neighborhood, dangerous and funky. Carnival day, this servant was all aquiver.

She’d decided to go to the Ball. After all,

the revelers were masqued. Her true identity would not be asked.

And anyway, if someone should suspect her, she had a protector.

His Majesty himself was her employer.When she was dusting the foyer

and ever so slightly stooped to raise her skirt, the rascal smiled like an aging flirt.

And he insisted she meet (merely in passing, of course) the town’s elite — which, to her mind, could only have one sequel: these blue-bloods would accept her as an equal.

Miss Donkey entered the Ball without a hitch, keeping discreetly to the edge of the crowd. But they were a close-knit kindred — rich

and arrogant and proud. Each matron considered her word the word of God

and hated the brash intruder for lowering the tone.

They withdrew from her and left her isolated, like a traitor before a firing squad.

Soon, the music stopped, the place grew hectic. Fingers pointed, vicious slurs were traded.

But when the culprit dared to approach the throne, his Royal Majesty went apoplectic.

His reign had been marred. He summoned a guard,

who dragged Miss Donkey from the auditorium. And while King Turtle and his buddies binged,

she was declared unhinged and locked in a sanatorium.

48

49

Equality is a meaningless slogan.

THE COMIC

DUO

53

Tomcat was born and raised in the city dump.A wretched existence.

He lived by what he could scrounge.A piece of moldy cheese. An old sardine.

A bare subsistence.However, he was a kitten of great persistence.

That was his trump.One day, he wandered into a cabaret lounge

and improvised a routine.The place exploded with laughter.

The owner gave him top billing not long after.With this burst of glamour, he transmogrified

his coarser side.He became a pompous Tom

oozing sophistication and aplomb.

Before romance entered the equation, the Cat performed to thunderous applause

at all the most prestigious locations.It was, in fact, in the midst of an ovation,the future Mrs. Cat first caught his eye.She was a charmer, innocent and shy.

So, he approached with uncharacteristic tact,bowed and kissed her chastely on the paws.

The courtship was brief,but soon they were an item. In fact, the master,

slyly sizing up her looks and grace,decided she could doll up his act — a prop,

to put it bluntly — an attractive female faceand body.

For the Famous Feline suffered from narcissismand thought he could display her like a prism.

These plans no doubt were shoddy,but justice reigned and he was brought to grief.

Now, Mrs. Cat had never been on stage.Not a problem! No one could teach her faster.

He bossed her like a cop,and when she sparkled, ordered her to stop.

She’d be his side-kick, barely worth a mention.While he remained the center of attention.

(Here you can sense the seeds of the disaster.)

54

The Comic Duo climbed quickly to the summit.Full houses, standing ovations.

But their success cloaked inner desperation. There could be no mistake

who the applause was meant for —or who the bouquets were sent for.

Mrs. Cat was the darling of the crowd.They loved her from the start,

and when she curtseyed, cheered her long and loud.You could almost see the Tomcat’s ego plummet!

Her popularity was like a snakethat poisoned his heart.

No matter how he ham-boned or emoted,he felt he’d been demoted.

He hogged the laugh lines, but she got the laughsAnd when the curtain fell,

he sulked backstage, while she signed autographs.“Treachery,” he fumed, “I’ll give her Hell!”

The drama soon reached climax.The couple became increasingly estranged.

Mrs. (fearing the violent attacksof her ever-more furious spouse)

tried to take possession of the house,or at least insist they sleep in separate beds.

Mr. grew deranged,like a psycho who’s forgot to take his meds,

and shrieked that she was sacked!But she was now a star; her name in lights.

When she played solo, the place was always packed.Tomcat begged for a gig from the theater owner.

No use.He’d become redundant as a loner.

Finally, he was reducedto prowling nights —

just one of a gang of alley cats who dartedamid the trash — back to where he started.

55

Envy is the dark side of ambition.

MISS DACHSHUNDWALKSHOME

59

The Opera Guild had been unspeakably boring,so Miss Dachshund decided to walk and take some air —

shrugging off a chorus of dire warnings.She, for one, refused to live in fear.

The streets were empty. The night was hot and dampwith the strangled breath of some expended storm.

Buzzing insects swarmed around the lampsthat formed a line of beacons to guide her home,

but oh the long dark shadows in between,each like a dangerous passage she must risk,

where who knows what malefactor lurked unseen.Involuntarily, her pace grew brisk.

And then, as though her fears had taken shape,she thought she detected — though she had to squint —

a scruffy mongrel lounging on a stoop,who eyed her with a predatory glint.

She had barely time enough to repent her folly,when he loomed before her and her way was barred.

Then, in a speech that was commendably terse,he gave her to understand he’d like her purse.“But that was the gift from an admiring collie

I used to stroll with on the boulevard,”she whimpered, whisking the token from his grasp

as though his very touch would leave it fouled.He signaled his impatience with a growland started pawing at her diamond clasp.

“Not that! That was my mother’s mother’s.”Nothing was left to steal, but her string of pearls.“These once belonged, “ she started to explain . . .

(his eyes turned slits, his lips grew flecked with slaver). . . to someone dear to me, but now they’re yours.”

And surrendering, with a submissive smile,the necklace to its crude inheritor,

she hurried on her homeward way again.

Much trouble can be averted by knowing when to stop.

60

THE HIPPOand

THE EGRET

65

The Egret and the Hippo were each other’s only friend —sisters in their own select sorority,

as though their two lives formed a perfect blendthat would be spoiled by any new ingredients.

In this unlikely pair,the bird ruled with an absolute authority,

and the great ungainly beast was all obedience.

The Hippo was the household’s sole provider.At daybreak, she set off; at dusk, returned —

with the scanty offerings patrons lefton tables she’d wait or bars she’d tend.

The Egret decided how much went to who,without the least pretense of being fair,

but no division ever satisfied her.In fact, for every cent the Hippo earned,

her frail companion took so large a share,an impartial witness might have called it theft.

But they considered it as homage dueto the bird’s superiority —

as gauged by basic things like: leanness; grace;flexibility of neck, and length;

fluffiness of contour; brilliance of hue;lightness of limb; and pointiness of face —

as opposed to vulgar traits like size and strength.

This list (whose authorship you may suspect)by underscoring each implied defect,had left the Hippo hopelessly abject.

Ensconced in the modest flat they shared at present,the Egret (with her flair for things aesthetical),

passed her days pursuing lofty ends —endeavors that were largely theoretical;

mostly she just sits, lounges, eats and spends.And her own prodigious lack of inspiration,she attributes to the coarseness of her friend,

whom she condescends to like a peasant.Though this abuse made life at home unpleasant,

the stoic Hippo never once replied.In the dismal course of their cohabitation,

her heart had grown impervious as her hide.

66

One evening, when the Hippo waddled in,worn to a frazzle from a late night shift,

she met with a more than usually sharp haranguefrom her significant other (who was miffedabout something she’d done or failed to do).

All at once, the Hippo felt a pang —an unfamiliar turmoil deep within,

part elation, part chagrin,as though she had transgressed some great taboo.

For, in the instant, that had just elapsed,a long forgotten levee had collapsed,

which up till then had kept her rage confinedwithin the docile channel of her loyalty.

Her face grew hot. He teeth began to grind.The Egret (disregarding this ill omen

with an arrogance that would embarrass royalty)crossed her wings in scorn on her abdomen,

like a torero who dares the bull to try it.As though the Hippo needed provocation!She bowed her head before her former idol

one last time, though not in veneration(all her thoughts, in fact, were homicidal).

Two tons of blubber quivering, in she rushed.The enemy quite literally was crushed.

The Hippo would in time perhaps be grieved.But the joyful surge of liberation

she felt at first was not to be believed.For, after years of reproach as a steady diet,now, at last, for once, her home was quiet.

67

A moment of truth annuls a lifetime of illusion.

THE BUTTERFLYand

THE ROACH

The Roach had a good head for business.He knew what a dollar was worth.

He was hardworking, shrewd and abrasive.And you couldn’t accuse him of mirth.

The fact is he’d come up the hard wayon the streets of a tough neighborhood.

And the merciless law of survivalwas the one law that he understood.

He’d started out in the kitchen –smelling of garbage and grease.

They eventually made him the manager.And then he had bought out the lease.

The Butterfly wandered at leisure,passing her time as she pleased –

getting drunk on the scent of a blossom,or drifting away on a breeze.

She lived like a monarch in exile:with nothing to claim but her rank;

with nothing to prize, but her memories;with nothing to give, but her thanks.

And somehow she always had flowers(though people said she was in debt)

and her dresses were old, but exquisiteand her wings, you would never forget.

Sometimes he would watch her for hoursfrom the window of his restaurant.

When he waved, she’d pretend not to notice.When he called, he would get no response.

But the sky was growing demented.The wind was picking up speed.

The trees had begun to writhe and lament.The clouds had begun to stampede.

71

72

So she entered and sat at a table.He asked: “Are you planning to dine?”She said: “Just a cup of English teafor the moment, if you don’t mind.”

And the rain clawed at the window.And the wind screamed in the trees.

“I can see that you’re in trouble,” he said,giving her hand a squeeze.

“Why don’t we make an arrangement?”He winked a lascivious wink.

And flashing a thick wad of bills, he exclaimed:“I’m not as bad as you think.”

And oh, his eyes were brutal!And oh, his touch was warm.

She flew out the door in an instantand vanished into the storm.

With nothing to gain, but her freedom.With nothing to spend, but her force.With nothing to save, but her honor.With nothing to lose, but remorse.

Sometimes the greatest peril lies in safety.

73

THE AFGHANand

THE ALLIGATOR

77

The Afghan proudly traced her family nameto an ancient Indo-European breed.

And reproductions of the family crest,engraved upon her silver and her dishes,

embroidered on napkins, carved in gilded frames,refuted any visitor or guest

who presumed to think themselves more pedigreed.(On this point, she could at times get vicious!)

She had a reputation for being stingy.And the reproach, alas, was largely merited:

for although she could indulge her slightest wishes,she continued to live on the ancestral estate,

exactly as it was when she inherited —except that it had grown threadbare and dingy.

And the clothes she wore were decades out of date.And her meals were anything but sybaritic.

Everything, in short, that she possessedthat did not show an ostentatious thrift

had either come to her as a bequestor been conferred upon her as a gift.

For the thought of spending made her paralytic!

One day, after an agony of shopping,distressed as always by the price she’d paid,

or if she’d bought a thing she might have borrowed —thoughts that filled her with such remorse and sorrow

that, driving home, she accidentally strayedonto a lonely road she’d never taken

which led to an oddly ornamented shack —a flamboyant mixture of decay and pomp,

surrounded on three sides by cypress swamp.

The sign, which showed a huge hand, crudely paintedand embellished with the figures of the zodiac,said “Guidance in Affairs of Love and Money”.

And though she sneered, her interest was awakened.And though she scoffed, she could not refrain from stopping.

She rang the bell. Then turned. Then nearly fainted.A pair of eyes, behind a murky pane,

as though sunk beneath a pond, surveyed her coldly.The door creaked open. She glimpsed a dark interior.

“Welcome,” a hoarse voice whispered. “Come right in, honey.”

Summoning up a semblance of disdain(for, after all, this was a social inferior),

the Afghan squared her shoulders and entered boldly.“You there,” she beckoned in a haughty tone

to the mistress of this strange abode(who emitted in response a hissing sound

and stared as though the sense of taste were ocular).“What do you charge?”

The reptile only snorted,as though the thought was somehow jocular

and pulled aside a heavy beaded curtain.A judicious application of cologne

was all that kept the Afghan from collapsingin the sitting room to which she was conducted,for the smell of putrefaction left her gasping.

“In any case,” she cried, “concerning sumsreceived by you for your prognostications;

if you’re mistaken, I get reimbursed!”The reptile acceded to this stipulation

with a smile so broad it was all teeth and gums.Instinctively, the Afghan clutched her purseand frowned to signify that she was strict —not some rich fool who’d easily be tricked!

(though her future, which was short as it was certain,required no clairvoyance to predict).

78

79

Greedy for little advantages, we make our big mistakes.

THE YOUNG TREEand

THE HURRICANE

The sloping orchard, the stone wall and the brookwere all the world the Tree had ever known

(for she’d been planted there and there she’d grown).And, in whatever direction she chanced to look,

day after day, morning, night and noonshe was enclosed by the same familiar sights

to whose appeal she’d long since grown immune.Something was missing, what she could not say,but she felt it down to the deepest of her roots.

In Autumn, when she was weighted down with fruit,despondently, she’d watch the birds take flight.

Asleep — in winter, when the ground was frozen —she’d dream of some vague province far away.In summer, she was overcome with yearning

for the clouds in their ethereal pursuits,perpetually departing and returning.

That was the kind of life she would have chosen!(For she was young and young things must rebel.)

This attitude made her so resentfulshe hardly noticed when, one afternoon,(which had been typically uneventful)

a sudden and unnatural silence fell.The air grew heavy. The light turned lurid green.

And then a soft, but ever quickening breeze . . .A wave of panic swept the elder trees.

This was no squall, this was a Hurricane —dark, magnetic, powerful and vain,

with his retinue of thunder, wind and rain,wreaking destruction, always traveling on:

a meteorological Don Juan,seeking a partner for his dangerous dances.

In a rising chorus, they cautioned and they grieved;for the Young Tree had a look they all had seen

(they too had once been young and been deceived).Their warnings she rejected with a laugh,and mocked their anxieties on her behalf.

What did she care about their failed romances?Let them cower! She would take her chances!

83

He whirled her, swirled her, arched her, pressed her tight,amidst a darkness, total as a cave,

except for the sporadic thunderboltthat flickered like a light-struck jewel,

revealing a chaos of things torn loose and flying —as though the world had risen in revolt.

Lost in the mad music of that night,she followed his every movement like a slave,for his grip was confident, though it was cruel.

And considering the steps they executed,the wonder is she didn’t get uprooted.

Certainly, it was not for lack of trying.The passions he excited were torrential:

she strained and strained but couldn’t get unstuck.

Sunrise found her all alone and crying,for every leafless limb was bruised and raw.But her feelings turned distinctly penitential,when, in the first dim morning light, she saw

— stretched upon the earth and slowly dying —some of her neighbors who hadn’t had her luck.

84

The most miraculous thing about youth is that there are any survivors.

85

THE QUEEN BEEand

THE GRIZZLY BEAR

Long before the sun rose over the city,while the last few revelers staggered home to bed,

the pastry kitchen was abuzz with activity.Back and forth, the swarm of workers sped,

disregarding bruises, burns and achesin the vast communal labor

of making dough and transmuting it to bread, croissants, brioches, bran muffins, torts and cakesto tempt the palates of their sleeping neighbors.But woe to him who spilled things, or collided;

whose crust was raw or glaze was singed!Queen Bee, the cook, was easily excited,

and feared for her sharp tongue.They all, one time or other, had been stung.

(Though even her most severe rebukes were tingedwith motherly affection.)

Always overworked and understaffed,ambitious not for profit but perfection,

she brought to trade the dignity of craft,and gave them the pride of knowing they excelled —by holding them to the same high standards she held.

But this tranquility was not to last.One fine Spring day, her landlord — the Grizzly Bear —

arrived in town, half starved from a winter’s fast.He was a filthy brute.

His language was as foul as his aromaand the walls of his lair

were graced by no diploma,but he defeated his more cultured rivals

in every disagreement or dispute.Schooled roughly in a classroom called survival,he’d learned opponents, when a deal gets stalled,grow more amenable, if they’ve been mauled;

and the judicious application of a fangoutweighs the most grandiloquent harangue.

89

All at once, the famished Grizzly moansand his nostrils begin to flair

with the sweet come-hither scent of a fresh éclair.He follows his nose to a tenement he owns;

the least desirable of his properties —old, unpainted, riddled with decay.Last fall, before his annual siesta,

he’d let the ground floor to a swarm of beeswith a crackpot scheme for opening a café.

But wait! What’s this? Some kind of street Fiesta? The door’s blocked by a crowd of clients, queuing.

Inside, the place is bursting at the seams!What a business these dumb bees are doing!

Who could have guessed? Who, in their wildest dreams!He shoulders in and commandeers a chair.

“Go tell your boss,” he roars, “the landlord’s here!”And as he downs an alps

of sugar-topped confections,last year’s deal takes on a new complexion.

He eyes the endless cataract of cashpouring out from customers to clerks

like Indian braves once eyed potential scalpsslowly approaching in a wagon train.

Unconsciously, his teeth begin to gnash.(You could almost hear the wheels turn in his brain.)

“The arrangement that we made no longer works.The rent, last year, though low, was justifiable.

But since the economics, now, are viable,it’s time I got an overdue increase.

And a cut (when some gross income is exceeded).Or perhaps some form of partnership is needed.

After all, we never signed a lease.But why her partner? Why not her employer?It might be best if she were merely hired —so decisions won’t be stalled by endless talk.(He makes a mental note to call his lawyer.)If she takes orders, fine. But if she balks,

like any rude subordinate, she’s fired!”He gulps a final cream puff and he burps —

smiling at the Bee as she approaches,for no matter how impassioned her reproaches,

all she has achieved will be usurped.

90

Aggression keeps what diligence creates.

91

THE WASPand

THE SPIDER

95

The Wasp was a ferocious pugilist.An opponent hit just once by either fist

dozed to the rhythmic count of the referee,while the stadium thundered.

And soon the rewards poured in.Big bucks, bright lights, celebrity!

A pirate’s plunder!Not a bad haul for a lonely, ignorant punk.Nonetheless, he muttered: “Something stunk!”

So what was the rub? Day after day,this king

of the ringswallowed all he could of lèse majesté.

His trainer, the Spider, took credit for every win,by giving the terms of their contract a cynical spin:

“You only do the grunt work. I’m the brains.”And God forbid, the Wasp was getting beat.

The trainer leapt to his feet,screaming like a hurricane.

Clearly, the partnership could not continue.So, the Wasp sized up the facts.

First of all, he was the main attraction.The posters pictured him in brutal action.

It was his muscle and sinewand his ferocious attacks

that drew the standing-room crowds and cable stations.Then, why the hesitation?

If he fired the Spider, nothing would be lost.An inspiration!

Whereupon“The die was cast,” as Caesar proclaimed, when he crossed

the Rubicon.And should the trainer dare to try to cling,

the Wasp would pull his switchblade and he’d sting.

96

The Spider, of course, was ignorant of these schemes.But even if he knew, it wouldn’t matter —for, many boxers blinded by their dreams

had found to their surprise they’d gotten stuckin his web of legalese.

To file suit required exorbitant fees.They wanted out, but they were out of luck.

Their bank rolls shriveled, the Spider’s just got fatter.

And so we arrive at the end of this sad tale.The boxer stormed the office of his trainer

and yelled: “You’re terminated!”This tactic, the Spider sneered, was a no-brainer.

He brandished their contract, citing fine-print clauses,with “only if ’s” and “wherefore’s” and “because’s” —

the sort of hooey the Wasp had always hated,so the boxer seized the contract, tore it to shreds,stabbed the Spider and left him there for dead.

But the Spider was only stunned.He grabbed his phone and dialed nine-one-one.

The cops arrested the Wasp and locked him in jail.It was a pitiful trial.

The prosecutor harped on the bloody knife.The Wasp had no defense except denial.

The verdict, attempted murder; the sentence, life.

P. S.A sort of imprisonment also befell the aráchnid

The rest of his life, he was wheelchair-bound, an invalid.

97

Brief triumphs are often followed by long regrets.

THE LONGSUFFERING

MULE

The Mule was a model of patience as she trudged the historic street

stoically dragging a carriage through a wall of tropical heat

Though the driver would pet her for tourists (hoping to fatten his tip),

he was cheap with the feedbag, hard on the reins and quick with the whip.

The Gadfly had no known employment. Either he’d beg or he’d steal.

His face was coarse and unshaven. He was broke. He needed a meal.

He buzzed around restaurant alleys, but the trash cans all were shut tight.

When he saw the Mule’s succulent flanks,he zeroed in for a bite.

The effect on the Mule was electric. She whinnied. She bucked. And she shied —

ejecting the driver, who lingered three days in a coma, then died.

Tours Inc. ran an ad for employees. A replacement soon was arranged.

The Mule once again drags her carriage. Nothing important has changed.

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102

We are outraged by a small injustice,

if it is new - and blind to great evils that have become familiar.

THE MALAMUTEand

THE SEAL

107

The transport business, owned and operated by Malamute and his eleven brothers

demanded a ferocious dedication. No holiday was ever celebrated

and no one took vacation. Life was strenuous on the road,

but they were a team and each one pulled his load. Malamute was smaller than the others,

but better educated, due to a short stint in obedience training.

And so, the shy hardworking runt was harnessed with the hardest job in front.

One dismal arctic night, while he was straining to haul a heavy burden through the sludge, a mood arose that shook his status quo — a troubling mood that he at first ascribed

to the sameness of the landscape smooth with snow. Although he couldn’t explain with precision, he felt the door of life had somehow shut.

And, like the blind who suddenly gains vision, he saw in a flash the endless miles he trudged

were just one line, endlessly inscribed between the same fixed points. In short, a rut.

And though by nature timid to a fault, he knew the time had come to call a halt.

Directly to a barroom in the port, the disgruntled canine trotted. Already he was mildly besotted

and just beginning to feel like quite the sport, when a Seal, whose eye met his eye, winked and laughed.

She was an aging temptress — pleasantly plump, both fore and aft —

and dressed it seemed for warmer latitudes in a long dark shimmering sheath, stiletto pumps

and gold hoop earrings. And when she waddled over, with a waft of strong perfume and foreign attitudes,

her effect on him was quite absurdly cheering. For it’s a proven scientific fact

that likes repel, but opposites attract.And she had all the qualities he lacked.

She was vivacious, cheerful, somewhat loud; and the natural focal point of any crowd —

the result, no doubt, of her former occupation: for in her youth, she’d been a circus seal.

She’d played pipes, danced shimmies, done some juggling and crossed the center ring on a giant wheel

“in the Capital Cities of every Civilized Nation!”Her fame, alas, had suffered an eclipse

in the decades on the downhill side of twenty. The plain unvarnished truth was she’d been struggling.

For she’d acquired a few too many debts, a few too many amorous regrets,

a few too many pounds upon her hips from an overdose of “dolce far niente”.

When she explained she was a stranded tourist, our hero (who was hopelessly naive) struggled to convey an invitation —

choosing words as carefully as a jurist and feeling faint for fear of being rude.

But, with a laugh, she saved the situation. “I’m starved,” she said, “let’s eat.” and grabbed his sleeve.

A table for two at a waterfront café soon put them in a warm and mellow mood.

They danced on the terrace that overlooked the bay, while the music slowed to a suggestive largo

and the city lights turned the sky a deep pastel. Forgotten were the tundra and the cargo.

They flagged a cab to a small nearby hotel.

He woke alone, amidst the night’s debris of cigarettes, stale wine and cast-off clothes.

He read the note she left, then sat and listened to the sound of a ship’s horn gradually retreating.

Chaotically, his thoughts as he arose ran back to all that happened since their meeting. The raptures they shared now seemed chimeric.

Nonetheless, his mood was strangely lyric, as though some inner taint had been washed clean. Outside the air smelled sweet, the water glistened.

And as he started home, he felt serene.

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109

Peace lies hidden in the heart’s mysterious needs.

THE EGRETand

THE CATFISH

113

Miss Egret had a beak sharp as a scissorsshe loved to stuff with tadpoles, frogs and fish

and salamanders and the occasional lizard.For nothing she had found could match the pleasure

of sitting down to a nice aquatic dish,and after, retiring to the living room,

to stretch upon the sofa, amidst her treasuresand drowse contented in the gilded gloom,like a queen of Egypt laid out in a tomb.

For her gluttony was not confined to eating:buying costly things was an obsession.

But though they brought her joy, the joy was fleeting.So each new day must bring a new possession.

Her generosity was like a geyser —provided it was on herself she spent —with everybody else, she was a miser.

She always gave small tips. And never lent.And threw out any renters late with rent.

Old grandma Catfish wasn’t feeling spry.She tidied up, put on a pot of beans,

and taking her youngest and her smallest fry,sat down on her stoop to watch the world go by.

But her spirits sank and her eyes filled up with tearsand she prayed to the Lord to give her some protection.

For she saw Miss Egret, who was never seen,except when she came to make the rent collection.And the Catfish clan was two months in arrears.

“Times have been hard,” old grandma Catfish sighed.“And money doesn’t stretch as far as it did.”

“The rent’s too high for you,” the Bird replied,with a look of deep concern upon her face.

“You really ought to find a cheaper place.”

“The light’s burnt out. The trash can has no lid.The banister rail is falling off the stairs.”

“If only I could afford to make repairs!You could get hurt. Become an invalid!

Then what would happen to the little waif?I won’t rest easy till you’re someplace safe.”

“Don’t tell me,” moaned the Catfish, “you intendto throw us out and find somebody new.

We’ve lived here since I can’t remember when.”

“I wish that there was something I could do.But I’ve got tenants living on every story.

And it’s not fair to be discriminatory,”replied the indignant Egret with conviction,

as she handed her a notice of eviction.“I can’t make an exception just for you!”

114

Greed will always find a reason.

115

THE PIGand

THE VULTURE

119

Pig stretches out in the noonday sun and snuffles, tipsy on the spices of Provence.

He’s young and vigorous and all his wants are satisfied. Languidly, he wallows

until the first cool breeze, then off he bounds, with trotters that barely seem to touch the ground, to explore the countryside, or search for truffles,

frisking like a slightly pump Apollo . . .

A gentle, but persistent nudging breaks the spell, the sweet escape and the elation.

The day nurse has arrived. It’s time to wake. Time for the day’s first shot and the day’s first pill.

For a moment, Pig lingers in his dream, unwilling to relinquish the sensation of that euphoric, long-ago vacation

and surrender to the current harsh regime. Then, with some help and an effort of volition,

he maneuvers to a vertical position — a change that painfully renews old aches.

The nurse inquires, as she removes the bed pan, “How are we this morning?” (with a perfect dead pan)

and tenders him a tray of tasteless swill — then, noticing an onset of the shakes,

reminds him, with a sigh, “Try not to spill.”Just then, the door flies open and who should enter, but his young nephew, the Vulture, a ne’er-do-well,

who spends his time escorting debutantes, or table-hopping in fine restaurants

to hobnob with the high class clientele in hopes of hearing —amidst langoustes, côtelettes,

pommes, aubergines, fromage and vinaigrette — talk of some auspicious business venture

guaranteed to get him out of debt. For all his chickens are coming home to roost:

his bank account is closed, his cash is spent, his bills past due, his credit cards expired,

and he’s now several months behind in rent.

120

A providential windfall is required to give his sagging confidence a boost.

Last night, to top it off, he’d gotten drenched, when, after a gala, he’d slept out on a bench,

like a vagrant — though still formally attired— to avoid the landlord (who’d become offensive)

and there conceived a sinister campaign to remedy his fortunes and regain

the highest circles where he should be soaring; for he was sick of begging and imploring! “Uncle,” he cries, “I’ve been so apprehensive.

How can I let you spend your final hourstrapped like a prisoner in this sterile room?”

(“wasting a fortune!” he thinks, but doesn’t say it.) The end is near, no matter how you delay it.Now is the time to stop and smell the flowers.

Beloved uncle, I’ve come to take you home.(“And once you’re isolated and defenseless,

I’ll see that you’re declared non compos mentis,You feeble-minded geriatric gnome!”

This final thought, again, is left unsaid.) But the only reply to his noble outpouring is a grunt, a grimace and a fit of snoring.

So the bird (becoming ever more rhapsodical envisioning an advantageous codicil)

falls upon the sleeping swine like doom and endeavors to install him in the wheelchair,

unmindful that he’s rashly undertaken to lift three hundred pounds of lard and bacon.

A twisted world starts whirling everywhere, like a terminal attack of mal de mer.

His tongue hangs out. His bulging eyes turn red. He stumbles, staggers, wheezes, starts to choke,

and, dumping his uncle back upon the bed, the unhappy nephew drops dead with a stroke.

121

The more desired the outcome, the more invisible the risk.

THE TURTLEand

THE NEWT

125

For the last ten years, since Turtle lost his wife, he tried to make the best of living alone.

His nights were long and empty. His meals were Spartan. His days crawled by in a dreary monotone of errands, naps or working in the garden. He felt that he was growing old and sour.

But there was still one bright spot in his life: the arrival of his little friend the Newt, each morning for her customary visit.

He doted on her. And she was exquisite, but just as devious as she was cute.

His gentleness was no match for her guile. And her power over him was absolute,

for a single tear of hers would make him cower. And he’d give her anything to win a smile —

which woke in her a thirst for acquisition, like a wolf cub that has caught the scent of blood.

She soon was borrowing without permission and finally became an outright thief.

Imagine his amazement when he caught her and required her to empty out her pockets:

a watch, two jackknives, coins, a pair of studs, some antique buttons and a silver locket.

“And I have always loved you like a daughter.Is this the way,” he moaned, “you show your thanks?”

“It was just a sort of game”, the child hissed, “to see how long it took till they were missed.”

Her tears, needless to say, poured down in floods. “Of course. Of course.” he murmured, with relief.

“All children love to play their little pranks.”(And he felt himself like he might start to weep.)

“You mustn’t think I had the least suspicion.Everything we took is yours to keep.”

126

Loneliness is always ready to believe.

THE SNAKEand

THE MOUSE

131

On an old forgotten corner of the city,there stood a little family grocery store.

The aisles were narrow and the counter was gritty,but none of the regular customers seemed to mind,

for despite its drawback and its blemishes,the place was like a home away from home.

(And not intended for gourmet or gastronome!)The Mouse, sole owner and proprietor,

seldom left the premises.He was hard-working, diligent and kind,

and greeted all his customers by name(in his eternally rumpled suit and thin mustache)

and gave them credit if they were short of cash —for he, like them, had often been distressed

to find himself financially hard-pressed,which makes one more susceptible to pity.

The Mouse had even acquired a certain local fame,and recently been elected by acclaim

head of the neighborhood improvement committee.

And it was in this latter capacityhe first attracted the notice of the Snake,

a high-rolling entrepreneur,famous for his brashness and tenacity,

who sauntered in and flashed a slick brochurewith his own ideas for improving the neighborhood

and the windfall profits everyone would make,for he had nothing in mind but the common good.

These decrepit old buildings were obscenities!Replace them with something new and bright and large!

A supermarket with all the amenities!Naturally, in return for his assistance

in overcoming ignorant resistancefrom those who wanted the block kept residential,

the Mouse would be made manager in charge.(This part of the plan was confidential.)

132

As news spread of the Serpent’s proposition,the neighbors joined in concerted opposition.

But when the scheme came under his advisement,the Mouse, in a grandiloquent report

(that sounded in fact more like an advertisement) proclaimed his unequivocal support —

whereupon confusion reigned, resistance faltered,and to make a long, sad story short:

in six months time, the landscape had been alteredbeyond recognition.

But when he arrived at Snake Incorporated,whose offices were like a giant glass cage,

on the top floor of the newest, tallest tower,expecting to be richly compensated,

the Mouse was kept waiting by the hour.And the only thing he got was one excuseafter another. Things were complicated.

They needed a résumé, a recommendation,credit ratings. Then, flying in a rage

as one by one these papers were produced,the Snake began to heap him with abuse —

because he was too that or else to this.And the Mouse realized with a sinking sensation,

that it was idiotic to persist.For he was, in point of fact, no further use.

133

Experience teaches nothing until it is too late.

THE MINNOWand

THE PIKE

Esox Lucius, as he died, declaredhis wealth and his dominions should be shared

equally among his thousand heirs —a number which even then was deemed excessive

for the Monarch of a small provincial stream.By now the reader hopefully has guessed

this fable is medieval and aquaticand will be pleased to learn, since we’ve digressed,

E. Lucius is the term for Pike in Latin.

An interregnum bloody and chaoticfollowed — its furious progress unabated,

until, of all pretenders to the throne,in battles, brawls, betrayals, plots and schemes,nine hundred and ninety nine were eliminated.

The scepter was seized by the strongest and most aggressive,a brute with the compassion of a stone,

extraordinarily uneducatedand more at ease in armor than in satin:Pike the Second, also called “The Great”,

in homage to a ferocity and greedno mediocre spirit could exceed.

His mind was narrow, his temperament despoticand violence affected him like a narcotic.

Habitually, he plundered nearby statesand stole the hard-earned sustenance of vassals,

all of whom secretly prayed for his defeat.

All but one — the Minnow — a youthful Page,brimming with eagerness and loyalty,

who’d grown up in the shadow of the castleand entered service at an early age.

This link, slight though it was, with royaltyfilled him with an innocent conceit

for which, among his peers, he was resented.

137

138

One day, the frog that Pike kept as his jester —unable to resist an urge to pester —

told of a mighty realm, above the stream,vast, dry, radiant and full of wonders(a wild tale he had, no doubt, invented

which seemed to ridicule the king’s ambition).This was his boldest joke — and fatal blunder:

he was summarily eaten for sedition.Nonetheless, the tale began to fester,

night after night, in a recurring dreamof tremendous armies captained by fierce giants

that undermined the Monarch’s self-esteem.

And day after day, as he became awarehis champion was sinking in despair,

the little Page grew increasingly defiant,until he decided, whatever the dangers or costs,

he’d volunteer to undertake a questand verify the tale or prove it false.

His monarch sent him off with a fine farewell,in a flourish of trumpet, banner, drum and bell,and waited with impatience for his return —

which proved both sadder and sooner than expected:he floated feebly home, wan and dejected,and furthermore, mysteriously connectedto a fish line that seemed infinite in length

(for it is, alas, the melancholy fateof many a minnow to wind up as bait)

“Please, please, I beg you, Sir, please keep your distance,”he warned with his last particle of strength.“Please go in peace and pardon my resistance.

I haven’t the heart to tell you what I’ve learned.”But all of his admonishments were spurned

and the Pike grew more enraged with each insistence.He could not stand to have his wishes crossed,

so he promptly swallowed the Page, hook, line and sinker.For, although the Pike was not a subtle thinker,

he knew enough to show who was the boss.

139

The same qualities that win us successare often the cause of our downfall.

THE DINOSAURand

THE ALLIGATOR

143

No one was fiercer than old Colonel Saurus.The ground seemed to shudder when he got enraged!

His strength might have dwindled, his bones might be porous,But his pride had, if anything, grown with his age.

His fingers would tremble inside of his pockets,then he’d show that old photo the whole staff had seen.And his bared teeth would rattle around in their sockets,

“When I was young,” he’d growl, “and green,

none of you would have dared to approach!”(He’d flash a frail anger, like sparks from a flint.)“I would have crushed you, like I’d crush a roach.”

None of them answered, and some of them winced.

The feeling against him soon grew titanic.When he wasn’t present, they’d flay him alive.

And concoct a campaign of small spiteful antics.But their courage would falter, when he would arrive.

His day nurse (“Gator” he called her for short)was blessed with a truly impervious hide.To a stream of abuse, she made no retort

and day after day, she swallowed her pride.

Except to inform him that she found it odd —since Darwin declared they were both the same species —

the Colonel regarded himself as a God,and treated the nurse like a pile of feces.

But oh, how she grieved when his old bones decayed!What a torrent of tears ran down her face!

“Someday,” she whimpered, “all green things must fade.Someday, my ancestor, I’ll take your place.”

We sympathize with those we resemble.

144

THE PUMAand

THE CAT

149

The Puma paced relentlessly in his den, as though there was a danger in standing still, and stared in disgust at a stack of unpaid bills threatening wholly to engulf the typewriter

with which he contrived to earn a bare subsistence. His finances had turned desperate once again.

Clearly, the time had come to sally forth on yet another hunt for gainful employment.

Instead, a languor settled on his soul. Never had he felt so much like an outsider.

His mind slipped back to a time, not that long past, when he’d meet others of his kind by chance out on the prowl at a favorite watering hole

and drink a toast to their insecure existence — a time when problems were a goad to mirth

and poverty did not preclude enjoyment, spiced as it was with a savor of romance.

Of all that boisterous crowd he was the last — the last example of a dying breed

whose fiercely independent ways were deemed unsuited to a corporate environment.

In newsrooms, where his work was once esteemed, the editors now looked on him askance, and (alluding to an update of the rules)

explained all freelance writers had been dropped. What did they want him to do? Go into retirement?

(without the benefit, it should be mentioned, of health care, severance pay or old age pension).

“Pity the ill-fated, freelance Puma,who lives a threadbare life and dies a fool,and soon will be extinct as Montezuma,”

he growled with a deep ferocious laugh.

150

Suddenly, the obsessive pacing stopped. There was one way he could still succeed!

He’d disavow his old anarchic creed and ask for a position on the staff.

Immediately, he thought — with great relief — of a slick, substantial monthly magazine where a Cat he knew was editor-in-chief.

Farewell unrewarding life as a loner! Already in his mind’s eye, he envisioned

a circle of colleagues, friends, chats, gossip — teamwork in an aura of camaraderie and caffeine,

so congenial, it wouldn’t even seem work. In short, belonging was his new ambition.

Buoyed by these thoughts, he soon was sitting outside an office, with walls of tinted glass,

waiting for his appointment. This was delayed while the Cat, who seemed excessively harassed, screamed in a voice you wouldn’t call cherubical at some wretched creature cowering in a cubicle. When she came back, the Cat was nearly spitting.

(Henceforth her orders would be obeyed!) “And you?” she queried, when the fit had passed —

but before the Puma answered, out she flew and sprang upon a quaking young subordinate

in a rage (misguided as it was inordinate) that only slackened when she hissed: “You’re fired!”

No further demonstration was required. Loping home — joint-sore and full of scars,

unsure of the future, hungry, alone and tired — a grateful Puma thanked his lucky stars.

151

A change of attitude is often the best escape.

THE BUTTERFLYand

THE ROSE

155

Whenever the Butterfly appeared, flitteringacross the courtyard, like color come to life,

the whole world seemed to notice.He had a fine proboscis and large, dark eyes —

a demeanor unmistakably patrician.And his manners (which were glittering)

wrung a chorus of adoring sighsfrom Lily, Jasmine, Hyacinth and Lotus,

who offered their nectars sweetly in submissionwith a secret hope they’d one day be his wife.

But he preferred to dally here and there,sport briefly with the belle of some parterre,

and once he tired of this recreation,fly off in search of his next brief flirtation.

The whole world, that is, except the Rose.For, on that morning she first caught his eye,

the season’s most exquisite bloom was drowsingbeneath a canopy of cool magnolia.

Her scarlet blush, her scent, her silken features,her slight poetic touch of melancholia,

were even more seductive in repose.The Butterfly abandoned his carousingand lighted on a point of leaf nearby,

to contemplate this unsuspecting creature,who’d shortly have the pleasure to discover

that he’d selected her to be his lover.

But she revealed, when she at last awoke,that she’d been, so to speak, inoculated

against his arrogance by her own vanity.For she was not the least intimidated

and made her virtuoso suitor stammer,as he attempted to display urbanity,

by spurning his advances with a joke.All summer, day by day and week by week,she parried his charisma with her glamourand trumped his savoir vivre with her chic.

Though, if the truth be told, she was impressed(and his nearness caused her singular distress).

It was his presumption she could not abide.His own too high opinion of his powers.

As though, like all the others, she would yield:a victim on the altar of his pride —

she, the most magnificent of flowers!Never! Her mind was set. Her will was steeled.

Brief moments when they might have breached the wallof egotism keeping them apart

slipped by, unseized. Once, meeting her by chance,all pretense fell and he confessed his heart.

But with a laugh, as though he took it lightly —at which she frowned and flashed a frigid glance

to show she found his public scene unsightly.

And so, in the heat of the sun and the buzz of the cicada,they fought their amatory intifada,

day by day and week by week, till Fall.But when the first cool breeze of autumn swept

across the gardenand the fountain darkened with decaying leaves

and clusters of ripe berries hung on vinesbirds quarreled over like contested booty,

a thing occurred she’d never have believed:the Butterfly returned to beg her pardon.

The Rose was wilted now: a ravaged beautywith nothing left intact except her spines.

And he, who once had soared in the wind, now crept.Time had wreaked a brutal desecration,but offered them this final consolation:

they fell into each other’s arms and wept.

156

Humility is the one true gift of age.

157

THE MOUSETRAP

Fortune was not smiling on the Mouse.He’d foraged all night, but failed to gain admission

to a single jar or canister or bin.And his gunny sack was empty of provisions.

Then a noise he made woke up the sleeping cat.He fled in terror through the darkened house,

while, like a vengeful fury, she pursued.Leaping and tumbling like an acrobat,somehow he contrived to save his skin.

With a heavy heart, he started trudging backto the little hole-in-the-wall that he called home.

He was ashamed to face his waiting spouse,for they had a numerous and hungry brood —

but not a scrap of food.His bones were aching and his mood was black.

When suddenly before his dazzled eyes,like a spectral figure from a catacomb,

a perfect wedge of cheese materialized —pale and warm and ripe and aromatic.

His luck had changed at last! He was ecstatic!But what was it doing on this strange device?

And why was it carelessly left lying there?Mankind has never been a friend to mice.

He hesitated for he was suspicious,and fearing hidden danger, sniffed the air —

but an aroma, cloying and delicious,dulled his brain and paralyzed his will.

And in a dream he saw his dreams fulfilled:the returning hero welcomed by his mate

like a pirate captain bringing home a treasure,as the children, feasting gaily, squeal with pleasure . . .

And with these happy thoughts, he took the bait.

161

Every trap is baited with a dream.

162

THE FROGand

THE SUMMER RAIN

The Frog — with one last desperate effort — reachedthe top of the earthen mound;

hoping against hope he would find beyondsome remnant, at least, of a life-sustaining pond,

not just another stretch of barren groundthe unrelenting sun had baked and bleached.But no. No luck. Despondently, he gazed

at a dusty crater. The world around him blazed.He felt his spirit and his legs give out.

This was the end. The last three months of droughthad left him somewhat crazed,

and now, in his agony, as though to taunt him,a fragment of the past returned to haunt him.

Himself — a summa cum laude polliwog —croaking the encore at his first recital.

Bird, beast and insect staring in adulation,like worshipers before an idol

from one end to the other of the bog.His bow. A thunderous ovation.

Abruptly, the hallucinationvanished. The parched amphibian came around

in a glare that made his temples pound —bitterly regretting the years he’d squandered,

the wasteland of neglect through which he’d wanderedsince that triumphant debut that promised so much.

Here in this ditch, he would be killed:alone,

unknown.All that early promise unfulfilled.

In fact, he’d grown so weak,at first, he barely noticed a small cool touch

on his cheek.The Rain, the Summer Rain — could it be her,

beside him, kneeling?Her presence stirred him like a strong liqueur.

He was healing(and growing more enamored the more he mends).

Fortunately, his feelings were requited.Before long, they were something more than friends.

167

168

And in the sanctuary she provided,the hardships he’d traversed

after the easy laurels he’d won at first lost their sting. Each morning, he rehearsed.

Each afternoon as well. And his ambitionemboldened by this miraculous remission

more than ever mastered his volition.The rustle of her cast-off gown,

that alluring sound,paradoxically became a distraction

from what he really wanted: crowds, applause, action.They still embraced. Made love. Slept side by side.

But felt ashamed. As though someone had lied.

At last one day, when the glistening vagabondswept down from the sky for their tryst,a note he’d left behind was all she found.

This artist — whom she’d cherished, hugged and kissed —was not, it seems, a sentimentalist.

He’d moved in with a young attractive pond,who was exceptionally well-connected.The benefits were better than expected.

In a single bound,he went from nobody to world-renowned.But till his dying day, the sight or sound

of rainplunged him into a catastrophic mood

even those closest to him could not explain.And anytime and any place he sang,

he glimpsed her somewhere in the multitude.Her? Or a phantom of his guilt? A pang

of terror, like a cold hand, gripped his throatand made him miss his note.

And when the Frog retired at last and wrotehis memoirs — a boastful harangue

by “the greatest living tenor of his age”that attracted tons of media attention —

the Summer Rain received a passing mentionin a footnote at the bottom of a page.

169

The public version is always a lie.

THE PIGEONand

THE MOCKINGBIRD

173

From dawn to dusk, the Pigeon would go begging, trying to win his crust of daily bread

and he made his pitch by endlessly repeating the only tune he carried in his head.

But though he lacked extraordinary talents, one important lesson he had learned

on the city streets which were his alma mater: “Thou shalt not fear to take what others earn.”

And any time there was a prize disputed, to the center of the melee he would charge; for he was blessed with an imposing stature,

and the small must always flee before the large.

One afternoon, when he was out inspecting a sector of the pavement he controlled, above the noisy humdrum of the traffic,

he heard a voice that beckoned and consoled.

The Mockingbird was pouring out her glory like a vintner pouring out a precious wine

and the people laid their offerings before her as though she were a statue in a shrine.

His features grimly set, he waddled over. He’d see that his domain was kept intact.

As she reached the peak of her apotheosis, he bristled out his feathers and attacked!

But there was no enjoyment in his triumph, for just the thought would throw him in a rage

that soon there’d be another interloper and soon there’d be another war to wage.

While the Mockingbird that floated far above him was singing like an angel in disguise;

forgotten was the loss of earthly treasure as she gained the timeless reaches of the skies.

174

Some battles are better lost than won.

THE FISHand

THE LEECH

The Fish could frequently be found reclining,lost in memories of her days of glory,

when she was sleek of scale and svelte of dorsaland her firm, luxuriant tail

caught the eye of every passing male.But she’d preferred her pleasures transitory,

without the messy entanglements of wedlock.

How many loves she carelessly arousedand just as carelessly discarded,

before Youth’s dewy charms had fledand gluttony, the last remaining of her vices,had left her quite so impressively well-larded

(for she wasn’t one to refuse a tempting morsel).Through hallways that seemed uninhabited,

she’d wander now, or lie on the chaise and drowseand watch the evening sun declining.

Her life was dreary, repetitious, deadlocked:a low-grade fever that never came to crisis.

Until that fateful day, the Leech appeared,a sorry figure, stumbling amidst the kelp,

in ragged clothing, gaunt, with a two-day beard —starving, in fact (and it wasn’t for affection)

from a life of misadventures and near escapes.He knocked upon her door and asked for help.

Scowling through a crevice in the drapes,(for she’d grown unused to having visitors),she perused him like the Grand Inquisitor!

And there seemed no way that he could pass inspection,but he was expert at getting himself attached

(and after all, the Fish was quite a catch).So, striking a reverential attitude,

he kissed her hand and expressed his gratitude,for he knew how rare a thing it was to find

“so much generosity combinedwith such beauty.” To which the Fish replied:

“Poor unfortunate creature, come inside.”

179

From this point on, the chronicle is swift:the Leech had, undeniably, a gift

— once he’d gotten reinvigorated —for making women feel appreciated(or so it euphemistically is called).

In no time, he was comfortably installed.And both of them, through this cohabitation,

underwent a subtle transformation.The weaker she became, the more he thrived;

the bolder he grew, the more she grew subservient—a state which, henceforth, would be permanent.

For once again, at last, “she felt alive!”

180

It is not love, but need, which is blind.

181

THE LEVEE RATand

THE KITTEN

185

“Kitten, why must you be so curious?”mother scolded, lifting her by the neck

and carrying her back to play with her brothers and sisters. But mother’s scolding only made her furious.

There was nothing she hated like being held in check, when the world was full of objects to inspect.

She was off and gone again, before they missed her. She went where she had never been before —

which was, in fact, her usual procedure. By chance, she wandered through an open door.

She peeped around her, warily at first, at an unknown world, vast, beyond all reckoning.

The sun was low, but the day was bright and beckoning. She scurried beneath a car, where nothing could reach her,

but grew impatient, and — for better or worse — she set out resolutely to explore.

All his neighbors feared the Levee Rat. He was as tough and violent as a gnome. For many years now, he had terrorized

the honest working rodentariat. (Perhaps he had an extra chromosome.)

His eyes were small and fierce. His beard was heavy. He had an ugly scar upon his snout

from a recent and a nearly fatal bout with his sworn, eternal enemies: the cats — whose destruction he was trying to visualize,

when he looked around and saw, to his surprise, a Kitten gaily frisking on the levee.

“And who is this beautiful little visitor?” asked the smiling Rat in a voice as smooth as silk.

“You must come to my house with me and play. We’ll have a cool delicious glass of milk.”

And taking her firmly by the hand — for he was strong and deft — he led her to a shabby three room cleft.

“You wait out here, while I prepare a snack.” He sat her down and vanished in the kitchen.

But her curiosity was like a fever. She couldn’t stand to wait till he got back.

Silently, she crept up to the door and saw him sharpening a pointed cleaver, which gave her a most unpleasant intuition that his character was not above suspicion.

So, just as silently, she crept away.

186

There is no such thing as too much curiosity.

THE HIBISCUSand

THE FERN

191

A pampered young Hibiscus liked to take the suneach afternoon upon her balcony.A weather-beaten Fern who clung

to a nearby wall would keep her company.

“Look at you, Fern,” the young Hibiscus once declared.“Those gnarled roots, that twisted stem, those yellowed leaves!”

(Of course, she had received the finest care —and though well-meaning, she was quite naive.)”Why don’t you try to make yourself presentable?”

she asked (for she was naive and just a trifle snooty).

“Not all misfortunes are preventable,”he sighed, “Not everyone is blessed with youth and beauty.

When the weather’s extreme, you’re never put out.Through the balcony window, I’ve watched you flourish

in the frosts of winter and the summer’s drought,while I drooped and froze and nearly perished.

As a seed, you were potted in peat and rich soil.A bird dropped me here and here I am stuck.

The little that’s mine I won by my toil.All that is yours you owe to your luck.”

“I owe to the beauty I bring to a place,so the heart may be soothed and the spirit uplifted . . . ”But her voice grew faint, for the clouds had shifted.

The fierce rays of the sun fell full on her face.Her roots started shriveling. Her petals went slack.But where was the owner she so often had cheered?

It was long past the time that he should have appeared.Would he leave her there suffering and never come back?

And she realized with horror that she’d been betrayed,spurned for no reason, condemned without cause —

as the tropical sun like a great bird of preyclutched her frail limbs in its fiery claws.

And the Fern, oh the Fern, he would always survive —a craggy old hermit, alone with his truth.

He watches, unmoved, each new neighbor arrive,flushed with her beauty and proud of her youth.

192

Advantages that depend on another can prove illusory.

THE THOROUGHBREDand

THE MUTT

197

Death stood patiently waiting. For what? A command?An allotted time to flow?

Why hold back the liberating blow?That’s what the maid could never understand.

The maid in question was a Mutt.Her employer of many years — a Thoroughbred —

had been diagnosedwith a fatal tumor. Since then, the horse lay in bed,tossing and turning, her muzzle flecked with drool —

until she got her doseof a recently discovered molecule

that diminished pain,but also caused confusion in her brain.

In short, the undefeated championwas entered in a race she could not win.

This grim prognosis wrought a transformationin the servant’s occupation.

She went abruptly from “maid” to “maid-plus-nurse”.For the extra duties (and there were plenty),the Mutt did not receive one extra penny.

Still worse,Madam grew addicted

to an incessant caustic kind of joshing.The ironing, the dusting and the washing

continued without let up.But now, all day, the servant was afflicted.

While she worked,Miss Thoroughbred would sit nearby and smirk

and comment tartly on her servant’s get-upor how she did her tasks or the things she said —forgetting, no doubt, the exhausted dog had slept

at the foot of her bed:on call, in case Madame cried out or groaned or wept.

For the Mutt’s presence was strangely talismanicand calmed the old gal, if she had a panic.

Needless to say,the Mutt received no thanks or tips or flowers

for this displayof loyalty and homeopathic powers.

The Thoroughbred, who was a blatant snob,thought sacrifice was part of the servant’s job:

those below must bow to those aboveand win their wages with proofs of their prostration.

But this poor Mutt wasn’t in it for the pay.She looked on the Thoroughbred with adoration

and gave her all in hope of winning love.She came at a run whenever her mistress sought herand worked her paws to the bone — not out of greed,

but hoping to be adopted like a daughter.She even took on tasks that were not assigned her,

using toxic cleansers that could blind her —anything to coax a kindly whinny

from the aristocratic steedwho called her a ninny

and looked on each new desperate attemptto earn affection with a cold contempt.

Late one night,Death decided that the time was right.

He swept through milady’s darkened room and took her.The servant, waking with a premonition,turned on the light and gently shook her.

A hopeless task.The Thoroughbred stared blindly as a mask.

“I failed you, Madame. I failed you,” the Mutt confessed,in tears before some psychic Inquisition.

“I should have made a call to the physician.”Sobbing uncontrollably, she dressed.Then, as always trying to do her best,

she arranged the corpse in a comfortable position.

198

199

The need to give and the willingness to take find each other.

THE EAGLEand

HIS CHICK

203

From the top floor office in the tallest towerof the city’s most prestigious address,

the Eagle surveys his domain:his condos, shopping malls, hotels, garages —

like giant pieces in a game of chess,advancing in a vast covert campaignin quest of competition to devour.

Today, however, the magnate’s mood is sour.He’s frowning fiercely and his feathers are ruffled.

Because one small key parcel was not acquired,a whole gigantic deal has gotten mired!

A shifting of chairs, a cough or two (but muffled)are all that betray the roomful of anxious staff

who sit at the conference table, awaiting barragesof high-pitched, almost incoherent shrieks

with which he routinely signals disapproval.As vindication, they’ve displayed a graph

of this year’s profits, among whose soaring peaks,they seek a sanctuary from removal.

And yet, a scapegoat is required.On which of them, they wonder, will he pounce?

At last, the boss turns, suddenly inspired,and breaks the silence to announce

that each and every one of them is fired —then exits the room, like a triumphant commander:

Caesar returning from defeated Gaulor Alexander,

after the Gordian knot was neatly sliced.

For in the war of sale and acquisition,his arms, like theirs, are everywhere invincible —

crushing all opponents, big and small,with a force of will relentless as a vice.

The Eagle refuses compromise on principle,never accepting less than complete submission.

He dives into each fray with great panacheand revels in the fierceness of the clash.So, with a parting salvo of commands

(the last remaining still-employed vice-presidentis cautioned at his peril to ignore),

the frowning autocrat flies out the door.

204

Soon afterwards, his luxury sedancrunches to a halt outside his residence.

There, waiting for him with a deferential smile,his wife reminds him she’ll be playing cards

and since the maid is off,tonight, it’s up to him to feed the child.

The boy, his son, is playing in the yard —an unfledged Chick with down so white and soft,

that, scratching maladroitly in the mudat some small rodent’s burrow,

he seems more like the quarry than the hunter.“A sissy!” mutters the Eagle (adding a stringof colloquial expressions somewhat blunter).As though to make his ignominy thorough,

the little lad starts flapping his wings absurdly.Toward the reproachful patriarch he springs

(in an attitude decidedly unbirdly)then falls to earth, like a dead weight, with a thud

and screeches in terror at a drop of blood.

“For shame, my boy! For shame!” his father grunts.“When I was your age, I was doing stunts!”

Cold comfort to the child, distressed and bruised!The scolding only leaves him more confused.“I want to eat!” he cries (and seems to taste

the soothing savor of a recent killgreedily snatched from a parental bill).

“No son of mine shall eat, when he’s disgracedhimself!” the Eagle thunders with contempt.“Before you eat, you’ll make a new attempt!”

“I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!”“You can! You can! You can! And will!”At this, the urchin breaks into a chant,

whose text consists of a single phoneme: “no”whose volume is stentorian

and whose malign effect upon the earsis not the least Gregorian.“Cry on!” the Eagle sneers.

“Cry all you want. I still won’t let you go!You’ll stay right where you are until you learn,

if you have to stay all night!”This tirade sets off such a fit of howling,

Dogs in all the nearby yards start growling.

205

Dark windows, one by one, turn squares of lightwhere silhouetted neighbors voice concern;

and when the screams increase,one outraged woman threatens the police.

“Stop your sniveling, boy, or you’ll get spanked,”the Eagle groans, with weakening conviction.“There, there,” he adds, “it’s not as bad as that.”The child, responding to this change in diction,

recovers gradually from his affliction —a change the Eagle greets with heartfelt thanks,

rewarding the silence with a little pat.The child sniffs and leans against his father,

who scoops him up with “really, what a bother”.Then, sheepishly like a repentant sinner,

He carries his son inside to get his dinner.

206

No force is great enough to impose cooperation.

THE TERMITEand

THE TREE TRUNK

211

In the world of the circus, the Tree Trunk had deep roots.His lineage, on both sides, he could traceto acrobats, contortionists and tumblers

often and triumphantly receivedat the court of the Tsar.

While still a sapling, he was lithe and cute.And after a solo stunt, when he’d salute,

the cheers of the crowd were not to be believed.Already, in his mind, he was a star.

But fate intended him for something humbler.For he was growing at a furious pace,

and what he gained in strength, he lost in grace;until the troupe decided to allot him

the unglamorous position at the bottom.His pride was stung. He sulked.

Outgrown, discarded dreams raced through his mindfull of spotlights, fanfares and ovations,

while he strained, lost in the shadows — a sweating hulkof sullen abnegation —

to whom the glory of the others was entrusted.And though, with time, he gradually adjusted,

some part of him refused to be resigned.

One afternoon, while the Trunk was in rehearsal,a Termite slipped, unseen, inside the tent.

She was a bug of independent means,whose clothes were chic,

comportment bold and opinions controversial;who lived on alcohol and nicotine

and caused disasters everywhere she went.She took a seat upon an unused prop

and, hungrily eyeing his luscious young physique,crossed her legs, so that her tight chemise

rose provocatively above her knees.

The Tree Trunk looked and let his brothers drop.At this, the Termite gleefully applauded,

as though his fault was something to be laudedand when his brothers stomped off in annoyance,

she laughed at them — those old, ill-tempered trees.Then, like a glutton at a rich repast,

she moved in for the kill. And she moved fast;as though she understood him by clairvoyance.

She murmured several racy repartees,then flew into his arms and clutched and kissed;

for she’d gained a certain carnal expertisefrom a string of brief affairs and sordid trysts,

and had surmised, although his strength was massive,his character essentially was passive.

And this unlikely match, it seems, was fated:before the sun had set, the two were mated.

Exultantly ensconced inside his trailer,she reveled in fast foods, filth, faulty plumbing,

his foreign accent, odor, bad complexionand stories from the old days in Albania.

For she’d been smitten when she saw this studwith an acute attack of “nostalgia for the mud”

(to borrow from the French. We call it: “slumming”).In no time, she controlled him like a jailer,

and if he dared to question, she’d berate himin words too colorful to quote verbatim.

But most of all, she spread — like an infection —an aura that was morally corrupt.

There was no substance known she’d not abuse.While he was all but lost to dipsomania.

And every evening, after they had supped,the Termite shrieked fierce tirades — while he boozed —

about how miserably he’d been ill-used,and fanned long dormant flames of insurrection.

Until, at last, the self-effacing Trunkbecame as proud as Spain’s invincible Armada.And like that famous fleet, he came to grief.

For every gin mill was a fatal reef,where prudent resolutions soon were sunk.And, from the frequent practices he missed,his disgruntled brothers quickly got the gist.

His end — which was lamentable, but brief —caused no distress to his inamorata.

For once his strength had failed and limbs had shrunk,and her fantasies no longer could be nourished,

she instantly departed. And she flourished.

212

Beware of those who encourage your resentments.

213

THE TADPOLEand

THE GOLDFISH

217

From the murky neighborhood where he was spawnedhe’d always seen her mansion in the distance,

and sometimes glimpsed her strolling on the lawnin the sunlight of her privileged existence.Her every movement had a natural grace,

accentuated by her flowing veils.She had a haughty look upon her face.

She had the most luxurious of tails.And so he loathed his shape and cursed his size,because he knew they only would offend her,

for his untutored adolescent eyeswere dazzled by her brilliance and her splendor.

One morning, as he wriggled past her fence,she nodded with a condescending smile,

and in a mood of rare benevolence,she asked him in to visit for a while.

Lilies floated from the ornate ceiling.The walls were hung with tapestries of moss.The fragrant seaweed set his senses reeling.

And everything was burnished gold and gloss.Enthroned before the trembling Polliwog —

who hardly dared to speak or risk a movement —she passed the time in lengthy monologues

and offered some advice for his improvement.And it seemed he would achieve his great ambition —

since these visits soon became a daily rite —of obtaining some subservient position,

so he could stay and never leave her sight.

But one fine day, when he felt energetic,he broke the surface with a mighty bound,

and following an urge that was genetic,he took a breath and croaked and looked around.

There are no words to adequately capturethe shock of seeing sky and trees and grass.

Each new sight or sound filled him with raptureas though he’d just stepped through the looking glass.

The next time that he saw her, when she lectured,he interrupted her without a qualm.

No matter how she ranted or she hectored,he answered back with an unnerving calm.

Perhaps in some way, he would always love her,but he’d surpassed the limits of the pond

and now he burned with impatience to discoverthe vast exciting world that lay beyond.

218

219

There is no return to illusions we’ve outgrown.

THE WEEDand

THE HUMMINGBIRD

223

In a dim secluded corner of the gardenthat no one thought worthwhile to cultivate,

on one inclement afternoon in April,a seed arrived upon the winds of fate.

No nutriments were added to its soil.No one brought it water in a drought.

It managed with the leftovers of sunlight,yet somehow found the fortitude to sprout.

The Weed survived her childhood deprivations,though they left her somewhat pale and frail and short.

And even in the bloom of adolescence,she still leaned on a cane reed for support.

And she never met the Roses or the Lilies,or their coterie of bored aristocrats,

who snickered that her clothes were too revealingand that she had atrocious taste in hats.

So, languishing in her forgotten corner,she’d watch the flowers dancing in the breeze

and envy them their glittering cotillionsand the amorous attention of the bees.

“Since I am small, I never will be noticed.Since I am weak, I don’t deserve respect.I get no help, because I am not worthy.I am alone, because I can’t connect.”

One day, while thus lamenting her exclusion,she heard a soft, perplexing sort of hum,

then glimpsed the most extraordinary creature,floating over the chrysanthemums —

floating, with his air of connoisseurshipand his minute sartorial perfection,

floating with the fragilest of movements,miraculous to say, in her direction.

She offered up her fragrance to refresh him.She yielded him her nectar and he sipped.

With the smoothness of her petals, she caressed him —thankful for his brief companionship.

In the morning, when she woke, he was beside her.From day to day, his departure was delayed.

And she, who was so conscious of her failings,could not refrain from asking why he stayed.

“Since you are small, you’ve learned how to be pliant.Since you are weak, you’ve learned to comprehend.

You get no help, so you’ve grown self-reliant.Since you’re alone, you’ve learned to be a friend.”

224

225

See yourself the way your friends see you.

This limited edition of three hundred copies set in

Letterpress Text was printed on Strathmore Pastelle by

Oddi Printing, Reykyavik, Iceland.

© 2012 LUNA PRESS, LLC© 2012 DALT WONK

French Quarter Fables by Dalt Wonk

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Transcript of French Quarter Fables by Dalt Wonk