for long millennia we primates
tussled with the sphinx of fire
until one day, as james stephen hints
in ‘camp noise,’ cavemen shifted
group cerebral enterprise to verse.
so here we sit, dear cousin chimp.
at least, we’re warm, and stock
is seething, savory, on the stove.
but that’s scant comfort, given how
we’re tormenting each other now.
what the fuck is he trying to say?
does he suppose I have all day?
so sorry! rubbing two dry sticks
against each other was a bore—
I hate to think that this is worse.
just lend me one last line of ear,
then scald your tongue on broth.