A soft splash breaks the silence of the scene.
Under a stone archway, a flamingo waits.
Above him, a baboon scratches.
Around them: a cemetery.
The bird lifts his beak and honks.
“Would you be so kind, dear primate,
as to inform me of our meteorological situation?”
The baboon sticks out his tongue.
“Not warm, cousin. One drop just fell.”
He adjusts the straps of his stained tank top and bares his teeth.
“Why d’you ask?”
The flamingo sighs.
“Well, our esteemed host left to fetch my coffee
a good ten minutes ago…
I fear I may doze off if he dawdles much longer.
And you, of all creatures, know what that would mean
for the mission.”
The baboon bounces up to the top of his perch
and scans the foggy rows.
“He’s nowhere in sight, cousin.
Smells like naptime and trouble.”
He tugs thoughtfully at the skin of his scrotum.
“But what’s that got to do with the weather?”
A feathered yawn is his answer.
“Really, monsieur du primate,
don’t act denser than evolution intended.
You surely know that no snail—
be it banker or bathroom attendant—
can resist the call of rain.
No more than a still, uncaffeinated flamingo
can fend off a nap.
Nor a baboon resist a proper poo-flinging melee.”
The baboon’s eyes glaze, nostalgic.
“Been a long time since I threw a good one…”
And as the two companions
drift gently into dream,
a second drop escapes their notice,
the coffee grows cold,
and Basile dances.
