Bobby and the Zoo

By
Once I went to the zoo. I watched the tigers in the cage. But I was disappointed. They weren’t tigers. They didn’t growl or roar or run. They slept and ate, their silent acceptance bouncing off the bars of the cage. I watched the tigers in the cage and they made me sad. I was sad, so I went to the monkeys. But they didn’t do monkey things either. So I sat on the zoo steps, and watched the people. There was an old woman, buying cotton candy and I watched her. She spoke in vicious whispers, in quiet shouting. The cotton candy whispered painful, sweet and sticky.
"Bobby! Bobby honey, eat some cotton candy! Cotton candy is good! Bobby!"
Across the courtyard was Bobby, a man, not a boy. He watched the lions. Something was wrong about his eyes. They were dim and empty. The woman pushed the cotton candy at Bobby. She was laughing dry and cold and pleading. "Bobby sweetie, please eat some!"
But Bobby wasn’t there, were you Bobby? You weren't there. No cotton candy could make you come back. You were in the cage with the lions.





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