Monkeys watch me in the grocery store. Monkeys behind syrup bottles and swinging from the fluorescent lights. I have a monkey in my cart. I can see his eyes, his sad brown eyes, where he hides between boxes.
Monkeys see hear speak nothing because they already know. They know about monkey faces in vest pockets, flying monkey planes overhead, carrying monkey umbrellas, whizzing on fire monkey hydrants.
I get on the monkey bus and sit. A lady sits across from me. I look up, quick. Quick enough to see the sad-faced monkey behind her eyes. A glimpse, and it's gone.