The Last Old Man of the Forest

I turn on the television. Sad
sounding commentator’s voice
floats over the fuzzy static of smoke:
a fire in a Borneo forest.

The flames are exhausted now.
A vast expanse of black waste
seen from a chopping helicopter.
A single smouldering tree in the middle.

At the top there is an old man,
an orange coated o.a.p clinging
for dear life, the last orang-utan alive;
an empty orange belly hangs low,

human hands wrapped around
the bare branches, the knuckles
white with gripping fear. He chews
the last leaf on the tree, slowly.

His Last Meal. No one to save him.
Helicopter cannot land. His deep,
brown clever eyes glisten with tears,
as his world turns to ash and dust.