The bear sits,
his head rising and falling
mocking the Sun.

In his pen
are the plastic rocks
of homeliness.

The walls are whitewashed Antarctica,
the old snow first peeling
before it flakes.

In the pool
are dead fish,
the sailors of a homeless sea

as he paces the shore,
crosses ice continents with each step
a perverted Gulliver.

Remembrances of a mate
melt like glaciers
within him.

I watch all of this,
look skyward,
trace slow the moving Sun.