Zorro

They wheelbarrowed him in, all limbs
droozing over the sides like glops
of ginger honey. Gangly like a half-spider,
he breathed softly, barely needed sedating.
Even the barrow was bigger than the cage
he'd flopped out of,
and as such, too much to comprehend.
Eyes stayed closed for hours, confused
by the lack of hemming in.

Today they took him to the island
in the same squeaky taxi. Two men,
one at each pair
of hairy, leather-ended extremities,
swung him gently
like a kid having birthday bumps,
onto a high wooden platform

where, surrounded by bananas
and climbworthy trees, he lay
and lay, eyes open now,
frowning, blinking,
wrestling to decode it all.

For hours they held their breath
tighter with any twitch
of the coconut arms.
Then, like E.T.
or Beauty's Beast
or the guy the doctors gibber over
in talking heads on documentaries
he sniffed, stretched out a hand
and began to unzip a fruit.