If I could observe prehistoric cavepeople
The hunt would not interest me (stalking
A saber-tooth until it gets stuck between their teeth).
Nor would the scene where they copulate
In some drippy, echoing vault
And slurp primordial soup afterwards.
Spare me the Olympic-style trot
Toward the world’s first barbecue,
Lightning sticks held aloft.
Steer me instead, to the first joke.
Let me try to decipher a Neanderthal punchline.
Was it a pre-planned gag?
Or just a mastodon tripping over a log
As it stomped past the lounging knuckledraggers?
I want to see them fall off their rocks
Banging their shaggy heads in the dust,
Roaring in perfect English, and
Crying, it hurts so good.
I want to see the first kneeslapper.
© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006