To a Penguin in New York Aquarium

It generally begins with tricks. An animal show

With the serried ranks, eyes and medals front:

A trio of seals, juggling balls on their noses, slim

Flexi-statues, synchronised by their trainers

Like Broadway chorines, or men mooching on street corners,

Lissomely draped around fire hydrants. And then he came,

This young penguin with the name of a German philosopher,

Who just stood there, didn’t do anything, couldn’t do anything,

A hero of early vaudeville, of flickering black-and-white

Comedies, imperilled by flights of steps, by a windy world.

Secret favourite of a minority of the childish electorate,

He was the butler in tails, teetering on the brink of the pool,

Shivering on his flippers, swishing his wings. His performance

Faultlessly abject, down to the exit, sloping off, without a bow.