Geoffrey

The giraffe looks down on me

because I don’t know how to spell its name.

g-i-r-r-a-f-

No, wrong again.

It’s got a scarf around its neck

in lieu of a frame,

but the alphabetic flubs

cut through like an indifferent gust,

falling from a mountain of scholastic shame.

j-i-r-a-p-h-

Not yet.

A genetic backstory as long as its neck,

longer than I’ve been sitting here

trying to figure out its sex.

Lemme check.

No gendered indication

or dictation for the order of letters

to align with its prominent station.

g-i-r-a-f-f