My brother wrote a poem about this. Long, but worth it. I swear:
Lawrence And The Magic Ball
Someone built another zoo (something some folks wish we’d never do.)
They built it where the WalMart stood (trying to improve the neighborhood.)
Experts met to debate costs to proudly feature (whether furry, scaly, or transparently skinned) every type of creature.
Some choices were obvious, without them folks would go cryin’, “What kind of zoo is a zoo that has no bear or lion?”
Some of the expert‘s nominees were struck down fast and firm, “Nobody pays admission to count the segments of a worm!”
So things proceeded rather quickly then wrapped up with a laugh, when Gail (who kept the minutes) said “We almost forgot giraffe!”
And that’s how Lawrence Obo (himself giraffe) wound up in Mississipp, grazing Oxford forget-me-nots, watching blackbirds bank and dip.
How Lawrence wound up in Oxford is not how Lawrence left the plain, That story is a sad one (I hate to bring it up again!)
Human beings like to own things, and say ‘Well, that is mine,” Why, if digits could be assets, someone would purchase number nine!
Oh, once the world was heavy with animals of every type, but people wanted to make more room, (I believe the term we use is ‘wipe.’)
But in Africa’s distant lands majestic folks still walk, the only difference between you and me? They don’t search the internet, or use a text to talk.
But, without the use of radar, or google face dot dumb, they have no way of knowing when their worst enemy will come.
And so Lawrence was caught napping, taken quite by chance, him but not his sister (she was in another place, practicing her dance.)
Yes, Lawrence and Loretta they’d been friends since both their necks were only long as green beans and their spots were merely specks.
Now years had passed and things had changed but the tragedy felt new, for Loretta on the wide dry plain, for Lawrence in the zoo.
Loretta had a family now, and saw her brother in her boys, while Lawrence walked in circles, trying to shut out all the noise.
Then one day late December, a human brought a tree famous for a holiday known to you and me.
The zoo turned brown in winter, and the board members thought “It’s keen! We’ll use some cast-off Christmas trees to make fake Africa an artificial green!”
No sillier than the notion that caged animals are jolly, the board of misdirectors proceeded with this folly.
A Norway spruce anchored to cinder blocks was propped up smartly near Lawrence’s water, and being ignorant of polymers, naturally Lawrence thought it fodder.
Already stooped for his H20, Lawrence started nibbling at the bottom, as he reached the middle part it dawned on him that once again they’d got him.
But he decided to scope it out, for his little pen was boring, and here comes the amazing part (so don’t you be caught snoring!)
Take it from this world weary soul: “Magic’s fake; magic’s real,” it’s not the words that matter, when things get so bleak you could sleep a thousand weeks be on the lookout for the latter.
If the donating party that gave that tree is of perfectionist bent she’s blanching, because Lawrence found an antique silver ball lost high amongst the branching.
No, he had not nor nary a clue the symbology of the trimming, but for the random unexpectedness with gladness he was brimming.
His neck was long but his nose was short (this was to his advantage,) he could get his eye much closer than any non-flying guys could manage.
That he could see himself (if only in reverse) was mucho satisfaction, but when he got within a butterfly kiss that was the least of the attraction.
First the view was dim and scratched (it was from the grandma, handed down,) but as Lawrence waited he made out figures like himself, you know, just walking around.
Then he recognized his sister, grown up and elegant, too, it suited her well, this being at home, not cooped up in a zoo.
What the what, Lawrence thought, I’ve never seen the like! Then he saw his nephews just like him, only miniature little tikes!
Now Lawrence doesn’t say things like miniature or tike or saw, he’s a giraffe, the silent type, so let’s just say (in our human way) he stood in gi-raffe awe.
His home! His home! Almost forgotten now he saw, from Oxford, Mississippi, from his zoo pen past the mall.
Do giraffes cry like you and me? I must report I cannot say, (it would take a ladder to know salt content, to know a tear’s shape and what each might weigh.)
But that’s not the point, a human error we constantly make (we don’t need to measure sugar to the grain, we need to bake a cake!)
But I digress, and that’s okay, Lawrence’s magic is not ours to see, our job is to be human people, and to let animal people be.
Here’s the end, it’s not bad or good, (the world works that way so deal): Lawrence has a magic ball, and your magic ball is real.