Once inside, I careen,
Keds squeaking, ignore
the “employees only” sign
and burst into the little kitchen.

I find Mr. Henry, whose hands,
large and deep set with wrinkles
have something of comfort

about them as he cuts carrots
and apples with a flat blade knife,
piles bits of fruit and nuts
into small blue bowls
while I perch on a stool, legs dangling.

His cart veers on wobbly wheels
as we walk the narrow space
behind cages with doors painted
with imagined landscapes.

He tells me about each animal
as I wait for him to release the latch
and gingerly place a bowl,
careful to avoid tooth or claw.

Behind the last door, an iguana.
It sits so very still.
I think it is stillness.

Yet I know it’s alive,
a coiled spring.

Mr. Henry places the bowl
beneath the branch
where its long tail hangs—
a plumb line measuring time and space
by some inward calculation.

It doesn’t hop, trundle, or scurry
over to inspect our offering.
Its manner speaks of dignity

and all I do not understand
of being displaced, of living
defined by limits and walls.