by Ruth S. Baker

“Polar bears move into abandoned weather station”
—The Guardian

At first, we must suppose, it was a game;
They saw a box, and in they shambled: males,
Then mums and cubs. And soon it seemed a shame
Not to explore, to climb the stairs; when gales
Rattled the window-frames, they learned to peep,
Dusty but cozy. By and by the dust
Must have grown irksome, so they learned to sweep,
Then decorate: some chairs; some art—a bust;
A paint job (something bright, for winter nights);
Curtains, and under-curtains—even though
They had no neighbors but the Northern Lights,
You’d think. They instituted, even so,
Some sort of spy-hole in the door, a lock,
And marks we could not fail to read: PLEASE KNOCK.