Penguins stand,
dejected.
Long forceps beaks
do occasionally snip into life,
brief-nervous preen chest feathers,
as if primping for parade,
then return
to resting on arms, reversed*.
.
No happy feet here.
.
Still life with excrement.
.
I console myself, argue - that's what penguins
do,
don't they?
Slow metabolism down, conserve energy,
huddle for heat...
but they are
not
huddling.
.
Each stands alone, sunk deep in their own
black/white consciousness,
Zoloft-suffused-sleepy.
.
No need to stay alert - there are no predators.
No need to hunt fish - food provided.
No need to shed surplus heat - temperature remains
permanently
fixated
on optimum.
.
As aquarium staff tread Tiny Tim*- cautious
onto icy faux- floe,
waspish black/orange-kitted
in maximum contrast ski jackets, channelling
Antarctic expedition
for benefit of gawping tourists;
I slink
to 'sea' provided in short length
of set-square-shaped
exposure where gently slapping, simulated waves
allow me
to feel
just the tiniest bit clean.

*The tradition of reversing and resting on arms - that is, leaning on a weapon held upside down - has been a mark of respect or mourning for centuries, said to have originated with the ancient Greeks.

*Tiny Tim sang 'Tip toe through the tulips' whilst the aquarium staff were tip toeing through the excrement. An attempt at satire ;)

.