Elephant in the Room

There’s an elephant in the room.
Why doesn’t somebody say something?
He’s making out to be an antique vase.
As I catch his eye, he looks aside
with a scarcely perceptible shake
of the head, and a warning rumble.

There’s an elephant in the room.
When nobody is near, he swings his trunk,
Quite overcome by everything he’s hearing.
He was there last night, in just the same place,
flicking his tail in irritation.
But then his face was turned to the wall.

There’s an elephant in the room.
What does he suppose he is doing here?
Is he hoping he’ll hear more scandal,
his two huge ears flapping like banners?
Swipe an apple or an orange? Snort
the punch-bowl through his yawning nostrils?

There’s an elephant in the room.
I’ve told the staff but they don’t listen!
Who’s tending him? Feeding him straw to
tuck in his mouth with his crinkly trunk?
And who’s it that’s losing all the dung,
stuffing it down the back of the sofa?

Ian Clark
2012, 2018