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“Pets and not pets”
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Journal of Business Research 61 (2008) 581 – 582
“Pets and not pets” Three poems
George M. Zinkhan ⁎ University of Georgia, Marketing Department, 138 Brooks Hall, Athens, GA 30602-6258, United States
“Wintering Dog” On a cold day in the house I rouse my four stiff legs to move From sunny spot to sunny corner. The shady edges of the rug are Frigid to the touch. Other times I warm my nose Against the radiator Where it backs up against the wall. The old lady doesn't buy blankets For me. Outside in the snow I’ve worn a path around the house From the front door to the back. Grass won't be growing there in the spring Despite and because of my urgent fertilizing. The congealed gray food from the can is icy When the old lady dumps it, “Plop,” Into my evening dish. There is a cook stove in the house. I’ve seen it. Sometimes there's a fire Smoldering in the hearth And I curl up on the worn throw rug. In the morning, if the rug's been slightly chewed, There's often a beating. ⁎ Tel.: +1 706 542 3757. E-mail address: [email protected]. 0148-2963/$ - see front matter © 2007 Published by Elsevier Inc. doi:10.1016/j.jbusres.2007.07.027
On cloudy days there's an evil wind Whistling through the rooms and No warm spots to hide. Don't send me out to the worn snow path. I can hold it. I can stand it. On sunny days my four legs shuffle Or sometimes I roll to find That sacred scarce sun-kissed spot on the floor. Maybe tonight she’ll light that stove And warm my meal.
“Bird talk, bird walk” Mobutu the Macaw was raised on kindness and chocolates cocoa and cuddling temper tantrums and white wine bird cages and newspapers His life was full and sometimes he flew huffing and puffing to the high curtain rod Mobutu the Macaw would sit on the balcony watching the wild crows and the mallards splashing in the long lake His head was full of feathers and squawking
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G.M. Zinkhan / Journal of Business Research 61 (2008) 581–582
His heart beat fast with avian temptations
“Dead Rat Tomorrow” “Son, get the shovel. There's a dead rat stinking in the backyard.”
On Good Friday shortly before noon Mobutu flew huffing and puffing to the highest branch of a blooming magnolia
“Why do we have to now, Dad? It's been there several days. It’ll be there tomorrow.”
Ladders from the fire department could not reach his perch, nor could my plaintive cry, nor the songs of children By night he lived on the high branch calling fervently to his wild kin mocking them and imitating their rude ways By day he struggled amongst them on the ground and in the lake seizing rough treasures with his beak His wings grew stronger: he huffed and puffed no more Mobutu was no more He flourished One Sunday I noticed he was gone swept away with a winter's wind
“Let's go now. Turn off the TV.” “It's raining, Dad, And the rat is shrinking. It used to be more of a rat.” “Son, let's go out in the rain And bag that rat.” “Tomorrow, Dad. The worms are crawling and chewing. Let's make it tomorrow's rat.” “Yes, I know. It used to be more of a rat.” “Tomorrow, Dad.” “Tomorrow?”
Journal of Business Research 61 (2008) 581 – 582
“Pets and not pets” Three poems
George M. Zinkhan ⁎ University of Georgia, Marketing Department, 138 Brooks Hall, Athens, GA 30602-6258, United States
“Wintering Dog” On a cold day in the house I rouse my four stiff legs to move From sunny spot to sunny corner. The shady edges of the rug are Frigid to the touch. Other times I warm my nose Against the radiator Where it backs up against the wall. The old lady doesn't buy blankets For me. Outside in the snow I’ve worn a path around the house From the front door to the back. Grass won't be growing there in the spring Despite and because of my urgent fertilizing. The congealed gray food from the can is icy When the old lady dumps it, “Plop,” Into my evening dish. There is a cook stove in the house. I’ve seen it. Sometimes there's a fire Smoldering in the hearth And I curl up on the worn throw rug. In the morning, if the rug's been slightly chewed, There's often a beating. ⁎ Tel.: +1 706 542 3757. E-mail address: [email protected]. 0148-2963/$ - see front matter © 2007 Published by Elsevier Inc. doi:10.1016/j.jbusres.2007.07.027
On cloudy days there's an evil wind Whistling through the rooms and No warm spots to hide. Don't send me out to the worn snow path. I can hold it. I can stand it. On sunny days my four legs shuffle Or sometimes I roll to find That sacred scarce sun-kissed spot on the floor. Maybe tonight she’ll light that stove And warm my meal.
“Bird talk, bird walk” Mobutu the Macaw was raised on kindness and chocolates cocoa and cuddling temper tantrums and white wine bird cages and newspapers His life was full and sometimes he flew huffing and puffing to the high curtain rod Mobutu the Macaw would sit on the balcony watching the wild crows and the mallards splashing in the long lake His head was full of feathers and squawking
582
G.M. Zinkhan / Journal of Business Research 61 (2008) 581–582
His heart beat fast with avian temptations
“Dead Rat Tomorrow” “Son, get the shovel. There's a dead rat stinking in the backyard.”
On Good Friday shortly before noon Mobutu flew huffing and puffing to the highest branch of a blooming magnolia
“Why do we have to now, Dad? It's been there several days. It’ll be there tomorrow.”
Ladders from the fire department could not reach his perch, nor could my plaintive cry, nor the songs of children By night he lived on the high branch calling fervently to his wild kin mocking them and imitating their rude ways By day he struggled amongst them on the ground and in the lake seizing rough treasures with his beak His wings grew stronger: he huffed and puffed no more Mobutu was no more He flourished One Sunday I noticed he was gone swept away with a winter's wind
“Let's go now. Turn off the TV.” “It's raining, Dad, And the rat is shrinking. It used to be more of a rat.” “Son, let's go out in the rain And bag that rat.” “Tomorrow, Dad. The worms are crawling and chewing. Let's make it tomorrow's rat.” “Yes, I know. It used to be more of a rat.” “Tomorrow, Dad.” “Tomorrow?”