We Are Very Small

Compared to the elephant we're very tiny, like two-inch green aliens exiting a space ship and meeting barbarian giants. The elephant doesn't understand its power; it carries our packs and jars; mice freeze it up; its trunk grabs peanuts when it should twist off heads. We shouldn't tell it, because the president keeps this secret underneath his oval desk, along with a button he's been aching to push. The greeting card industry would have to stop making fun of pachyderms, putting words in their mouths about the old forgetting things. The world would be remade -- stronger elevators, stiffer walkways, different houses, other tools. A new god with tusks and a trumpet for stampedes of angels. A graveyard where it's forbidden to seek ivory among the bones. If that flying saucer does land, we should keep our size advantage in mind. When they whip out their laser guns all we'll have to do is kick them like soda cans we smash down gutters. Should have persuaded the elephant to your cause, we'll think. They'll wash away down the storm drain. The lights of their vessel will stop flashing.