Elephant Dreams
When I hear the name
Maximo I think
of a particular elephant,
one born on a savannah
somewhere,
a happy pachyderm, trunk
skills somewhat
delayed but memory keen, a
bit
of a rebel, he wanders off
the game
reserve, is captured for
his trouble.
You won’t be surprised to
hear the rest,
blindfolds, trucks, water
from buckets, a dock,
a ship, the sea, a crane
and miles of
open road, COD to a zoo
someplace, Europe maybe, Antwerp
let’s say, where our hero
settles in,
a curiosity for delighted
knots of young Walloons
and flaxen haired
Flemish kids, learning the
lay of the land,
getting a feel for things,
the dusty ball,
two or three wobbly
barrels, the dichotomy
of inside and outside,
endless pacing,
hoses, shovels, brooms and
hay heaped high.
Maximo, a name saddled
unfairly
perhaps with unpleasant
associations,
the bittersweet memories of
a
Belgian transplant who
dreams of empty
grasslands and wallowing
in the mud
of distant water holes.
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