Poetry
NEANDERTHAL
Poor fellow,
they’re still raging
over your pedigree,
your right to
a lounge suit and
free entrance to
the Club of
Modern Man –
no bouncer to decree
that occipital bun,
that heavy brow,
receding chin and
forward face,
a strict sartorial ban:
and if you petered out
because flat heads
were not such fashionable fun
as the high, millennium-domed
skull of Homo sapiens sapiens,
whose tongue flew down
his throat and was
his sharpest asset…
next to his sexy
linear line and spear…
all that Out of Africa gear –
just don’t feel bad
‘our man from the valley’ -
we know you cared,
shared food in life,
in death strewed flowers.
And, if by chance
a wandering lass
did meet her doom with
Homo sapiens sapiens,
caved up with him,
settled the argument
with a gene or two
(the best tonic)…
then Who’s Who?
I ask you…!