An Existential Aardvark Moment

 

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An aardvark filled with ennui

entered an antique store to browse

on the first of September. He was a

cool customer, an inherited-wealth

stable-genius type, who expected

those who served him always

to be on sheepish tippy-toes.

Spying a glass globe on an old desk

streaked with shellac, he pondered.

Did he need another Thing

for his staff to dust? Would it

lift the malaise afflicting his snout

which was tired of the tedium

of sniffing when there was

nothing new left to pursue?

Adding to his torpor was

the sexual confusion that plagued him.

He felt strange desires that must be quelled

because his parents were Republicans.

It was an existential moment.
If he were brighter,
it might have been a turning point.
But, no.

The staffers were holding their breath.

Would he buy the $500 globe,

even though it was not gold-plated?

The aardvark sighed, turned,

swishing his spiney tail, and ambled out.

There was not a Thing
that could make
his tired heart
begin to sing.

And he had no tools
to understand what would.
An unfulfilled aardvark
on a September afternoon.

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