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h 61 (2008) 581–582
Journal of Business Researc“Pets and not pets”Three poems
George M. Zinkhan ⁎
University of Georgia, Marketing Department, 138 Brooks Hall, Athens, GA 30602-6258, United States
⁎ 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
“Wintering Dog”On a cold day in the houseI rouse my four stiff legs to moveFrom sunny spot to sunny corner.The shady edges of the rug areFrigid to the touch.
Other times I warm my noseAgainst the radiatorWhere it backs up against the wall.The old lady doesn't buy blanketsFor me.
Outside in the snowI’ve worn a path around the houseFrom the front door to the back.Grass won't be growing there in the springDespite and because of my urgent fertilizing.
The congealed gray food from the can is icyWhen 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 fireSmoldering in the hearthAnd I curl up on the worn throw rug.In the morning, if the rug's been slightly chewed,There's often a beating.
On cloudy days there's an evil windWhistling through the rooms andNo 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 shuffleOr sometimes I roll to findThat sacred scarce sun-kissed spot on the floor.Maybe tonight she’ll light that stoveAnd warm my meal.
“Bird talk, bird walk”Mobutu the Macaw was raisedon kindness and chocolatescocoa and cuddlingtemper tantrums and white winebird cages and newspapers
His life was fulland sometimes he flewhuffing and puffing to the highcurtain rod
Mobutu the Macaw would siton the balcony watchingthe wild crows and the mallardssplashing in the long lake
His head was fullof feathers and squawking
582 G.M. Zinkhan / Journal of Busines
His heart beat fastwith avian temptations
On Good Friday shortly before noonMobutu flew huffing and puffingto the highest branchof a blooming magnolia
Ladders from the fire departmentcould not reach his perch,nor could my plaintive cry,nor the songs of children
By night he lived on the high branchcalling fervently to his wild kinmocking them andimitating their rude ways
By day he struggled amongst themon the ground andin the lakeseizing rough treasures with his beak
His wings grew stronger:he huffed and puffed no moreMobutu was no moreHe flourished
One Sunday I noticedhe was goneswept awaywith a winter's wind
“Dead Rat Tomorrow”
s Research 61 (2008) 581–582
“Son, get the shovel.There's a dead rat stinking in the backyard.”
“Why do we have to now, Dad?It's been there several days.It’ll be there tomorrow.”
“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 rainAnd 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?”
