Chimpanzees

There’s an infinite number of them in the next room,
but I’m concerned about Michael Jackson’s, sitting
next to me as I type this. Bubbles’ eyes look like
a dog’s, puppied and pouting. He’s disappointed
about something, I can feel it. I have no idea what
it could be – the language barrier of our separate
bodies is insurmountable. He keeps looking at
the keyboard, then back at me. Maybe he wants to type
something, some message, a tell-all book about his time
with Michael, a request for more humane conditions
for the chimpanzees in zoos or films, a love letter
to Jane Goodall. I don’t have the heart to tell him
she’s been dead for a while now. I suppose Bubbles
has been too, since it’s come to that. Who’s dead
and all. The chimps in the other room are getting
louder. I think they’re ready for me to read
what they’ve written. They’re ready for an editor.