In our tall brown brick building
There are dogs, there are cats,
Bowls of bright fish,
One stick insect, some bats.

– In fact, dozens of pets
We’re the only apartment
without one, I bet.

Not a cage, not a hutch.
We live quiet lives.
We don’t get out much.
One Sunday morning
Somebody rang.

our downstairs neighbor sang.
“I need a small favor
And mind, you don’t have to
But while I’m away
Something needs looking after.
I need a vacation.
You both understand.”

Was holding his hand.

Hear what I have to say.
What will happen to Byron
While I am away?”
He said, “Monkeys need company
It’s how they’re designed
“Left to his own devices
He’ll forfeit his mind.”

The cops’ll be called
And they’ll find him like that
Hanging out of a window
To hurl his own scat.”

just as we said.
But the life of a monkey
Hung by a thread.

And Byron moved in
With a crate full of personal stuff
and his gin.

though he’s set in his ways,
I’ll be back to collect him
In 21 days.”

On 17th Street.
He declined a banana,
Too distracted to eat.

As the daylight was waning
As if he was thinking
As if he was planning.

And he fumbled about
Then he turned the thing over
And emptied it out.

He’d been rummaging for
He marched into the kitchen
His foot closed the door.

As something was stirred.
There was chopping and slicing
Appliances whirred.
We peeked through the door
We couldn’t resist

He was standing there, sprinkling
Saffron from his fist,
Concocting hors d’oeuvres
With a dollop and dab
“Oh, my God,” we said,
“what’s that he’s steaming – blue crab?”
We rushed outside at once,
knocking all down the hall
“A monkey’s been cooking!
And we can’t eat it all!

most people were in.
“Please come out,” we begged, “please.
“Bring a fork and tuck in.”

Byron let us to know
The soufflé he had made
Had one minute to go.

Guests began to arrive
The twins from 4L shuffled in
And they sighed.
Just as whey-faced and wan
As if somebody’d died.

We said, “How are you both?”
They said, “Nothings the matter.”
Then they drifted like smog
Toward the roast turkey platter.

“Let’s not get excited.
It’s hardly exclusive
if the riff-raff’s invited.”

As welcome as fleas
On account of their baby,
Wee Screamy Louise.

“Children are hell.
If that were my daughter,
She’d be down a well.”
They stood there like Stonehenge
Easter Island, the Sphinx.

Byron mixed up some drinks.

a peach aperitif
And while she drank everyone
sighed with relief.

Byron dripped in one drop.
Than he stirred up her milk
and he screwed on the top.
The mother cried, “Stop!
Is that drink alcoholic?”

“she’s cured of the colic.”


One tackled the turkey
Less glum than he’d seemed.

Let me carve!
You’re slicing too slowly.
We’ll certainly starve.”

“Are you taking?”
“I might.”
They repaired to the street
for a blood-stirring fight.

“While dear Byron decants,
I will favor you with
an interpretive dance.

8B rejoiced.

they fell straight to the moist.

I barely can stand it.
I’m having a migraine
The pain is gigantic!”
Byron gave him a drink
And he left off his panic.
“Where’s my ladder gone now?”
The super demanded
to paint our apartment
two coats, single-handed.
Our apartment was crowded
We couldn’t fit more

some sailors on shore
There was singing and wrestling
Upholstery tore,
15E wept with joy, 12Z started to snore
8B gathered dust bunnies right there on the floor

It was fizzy and grand.
But the place was in chaos
So it stayed in his hand.
Suddenly, there
In the midst of the crush
The guest from 1A
Raised a hand and said, “Hush.”

several powerful drinks
Yet I think I now know how my Rottweiler thinks.”

Before they could forget,
They all hurried home
to attend to their pets.

the last glass to somebody.
Just then in came the twins,
Breathless, toothless and bloody.
“Goodbye, thank you, Byron.
You’re a tough act to follow.”


was the last guest on line
He said, “Thank you, I had
such a wonderful time.
Cocktail party monkeys
Are so chic and refined
Come and work in my restaurant
If you have a mind.”

on the top of his head,
We made Byron swear off
Any parties ahead.

As we said.
Yesterday, the phone rang
After more than three months,

I couldn’t call once.
“I miss his martinis
His highballs are swell
These foreigners
can’t mix a drink quite as well.
“Say, do me a favor.
Send Byron to France.
Buy him a ticket,
I’ll pay in advance.
“I’d give anything
For just one ginger gin float.”
We thought we heard those last words
catch in his throat.

to leave Byron a note.

The End.
