Gus

Sunday morning we visit
the Central Park Zoo with
Felix, my friend’s grandson, our excuse.
The two-year-old’s curly-haired enthusiasm sweeps us in.
The boy’s father says, “Felix knows city animals: pigeons and rats.
Time for him to identify some wild ones!”

At the zoo we see an elegant pink flamingo framed
against the tropical greenery. It looks stuffed.
We walk over to watch the bronze bear
in the Delacorte musical clock twirl
and strike a melodic half hour.

We walk by an empty habitat: the old home of Gus,
the polar bear. He had been the most
popular bear in Central Park Zoo’s history.
20 million people came to watch and marvel at him.
In his domain, he began obsessing as do
humans who wash their hands repetitively
or write endless emails to an old lover. He swam
from the moment he woke up to when he tired,
finally climbing out of the quarry to fall asleep on land.

What else is a captive polar bear to do?
Was he an existentialist hero like the mythic Sisyphus?
Or just a driven NYC neurotic,
who happened to be a bear?
Given Prozac and special peanut butter treats
to distract him from his swim?

In the wild, polar bears live 15–18 years.
A few make it to 30. Gus lived to 27.
Was it better for him to live a long life in captivity or
a short one in the wild? Was he a lucky bear?

Hunting online, I find a picture book
of Gus and Ida, his long-time bear companion.
I tell Felix about Gus and read the book to him at bedtime,
hoping to populate his dreams with bears.

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