In Vivo
Mary Donnelly

If once alone the gilded domain
of rhesus monkeys and smelting
machines, the glass house now
overlooks a sea of refuse,
regrets, a bridge of dimes.

Linger upon its plexi-scratch roof.
Take comfort in police boats, a garbage
barge dragged by. No plastic,
only aluminum. No relief from siren
or sign. And the monkeys,

they have gone their separate ways
to skyscrapers and teams
of private veterinarians
who needle their dreams away.
And in my soiled white coat,

I take their heartbeats down
for measure, tilt my glasses up
to mark the greasy waves. When, at last,
the lower primates go, I will go, too,
will run from the wreckage

in movie star slow-motion,
leave the building to the flying
roaches. They will bat their wings,
content within our cupboards.
They will never wake us again.

© Mary Donnelly