Penguin is really at the party — He is
sipping a negroni by the half-shaded window,
just chilling, leaning against the closet door.
Headlights pass and reflect his plumage.
I want to talk to him, but I’m shy and he
has seen more than I may in my lifetime.
We make eye contact. I weave my way
through the others. There is no gray,
only black and white belly feathers, like
any penguin I’ve ever seen. Of course, I ask
how Pico de Orizaba and the South
Sandwich Islands went. He says “Great, cold
somehow less people now than during the Age
of Discovery.” 

“Oh. We are planning a trip down there soon.”
“Cool. I’ll send my friends number.
Great resource, he is. And, get a decent GPS.”
“Thanks.” I ask his opinion on the whole
of exploration, and which trip impacted him
the most. His replies: “The men you think of
as great the explorers, heroes, they were not heroes
until they saved the men already sacrificed
on their Altar of Possibility.”

and “Cape Horn, most likely.” I point out a peculiarity:
It’s interesting how Orca and he are the exact same
color palette, black and white belly. “Weird they are.
I hate those guys. They are destruction
and death for me. (He points to his brow)
I like to imagine these yellow
fronds over my eyes are rays of hope.”

Over the course of the night he cleared
up truths I thought I understood, like
the headings of the Southern Current,
and details concerning Humberbolt’s final descent.
I tell him it was nice talking and thank him
for his help with the hidden corners
of my plan. I finish my negroni,
kick my webbed toes up
by the fireplace and doze off again.