monkeys

Curious George is dead. Somebody killed Curious George. I don't know his name (the author) and it shouldn't make me any sadder than any other random death, but it does. I loved those books as a child, and have one of those monkeys in my truck. And the curious George lunchbox, and the Curious George-in-the-box the girls got me for christmas.

I love monkeys. I got a white one at a yard sale last summer. An odd looking homemade one. We have a collection of old stuffed monkeys my husband had as a child and one somebody left on the porch with a strange note taped to his overalls. I have one that sleeps on my shoulder, ever vigilant to a single missed step.

Here's a poem about that:

Junkies


Here’s to all you old junkies
still out there
keepin’ the home fires burning
the monkey on my back
only slumbers
light sleeper
my skin tightens
and leather begins to show through
my Eddie Bauer sweatshirt

on the other side of the other side of town
his porch is a minefield of
rotten wood and rusted nails
back seats from big cars
a water-stained curtain moves
slightly to one side

the smell of cooking heroin gags me
and I taste metal in the back of my throat
like a mouthful of cold pennies
syringes like tiny rattlers lay
ready to strike
veins like garden hose
hardened from unuse
give in

holding my breath
blood flags in the tiny cylinder
blossoming into
the warm brown liquid
like a dark rose
breath leaves me in contented release
and
just like riding a bike
I am home again


Anyway, I guess Curious George was co-authored. Look it up, I could be wrong. Sad day in the monkey world.