Mr Polar Bear
March 22, 2009
What must it be like to never be touched?
to be cordoned off behind a wire,
not stroked, or combed, or held, or loved –
but looked at from afar, muscles bunched,
your ancient fur, gleaming like a cold fire:
what must it be like to never be touched?
Just watch as other people eat their lunch
whilst holding hands beside your pyre –
and you not stroked, or combed, or loved
but mounted on a wooden block, hung
like a painting: Still Life, out for hire –
what must it be like to never be touched?
Or do you say this to your attendants? –
notice in their waiting, something tired,
not stroked, or combed, or held, or loved.
Is it cold in the museum, hushed?
when people come, are you like a sire –
an Icy King – do you dream of touch?
not stroked or combed, or held or loved.
