The Hippo Poem by DAVID GERARDINO

THE hippo grows up in the weeds,
their moon light becomes a powerful
flashlight, like that big fat sun in the
sky,

still the dead cannot proceate,
still the dead cannot breath in
this cold air,
still, there is something wonderfull
and strange about it.

THE hippo gets dressed and pokes
his head out of the weeds, looks at
all the traffic, and wonders, do they
speak my language, i think not.

still the dead cannot procreat,
still the dead cannot breath in
this cold air, still, there is something
strange and wonderfull about it.