Fold, one top into the other, pulled down into
an oval-ish bundle, swordfish and stegosauruses and tacos,
snuggled together as one; two, but one,
and into the drawer, there lays one
alone
without another
woolly, with penguins, unbundleable,
to be cast through the world, the mate gone to heaven
always feeling a fraction of itself, dead to itself,
pair it with Lincoln or a horse, but the penguin will always be
one penguin
and from that moment, it will be on its path to
being forgotten
to being
the last of its kind
because no match will be the match, the only match.
The only match is gone.
Monogamous
as are all of its kind, incapable of loving again
incapable of pairing again.
Next time, as the neighbors return home from a hard day’s work
as they cozy up with their mates, warm from a tumble,
bundled as one, maybe
the penguin will disappear too, gone to a higher realm
to be with its match once again
in a place
where toes are never cold
Josh Sippie is the Director of Publishing Guidance at Gotham Writers. His writing can be found at McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, The Writer Magazine, Brevity, Hobart, and more. When not writing, he can be found wondering why he isn't writing.