I was at Twycross zoo yesterday and saw a bald chimpanzee called Mongo. This poem was written with him and the other chimps in mind.
Bald, and stretched across the ledge like pink rope,
he tents his eyes in the crook of his arm.
Each movement is a little too familiar.
These chimps are us in our most honest moments:
the ones that always jump the last two steps;
the ones that give the cat a French accent;
the ones that pee with the door left open;
the ones that stick to the couch in their pants,
the TV loud, the window on the latch.