The Watering Hole

The stark contrast of

Black and white

Works for them

In the dusty dry brown

Of the savannah

In their herd

They remain strong

Indistinguishable

From on another

And it is mere chance

That one

As opposed to any other

Is singled out

By their predator.

A sea of legs

Shaven and glossed

With body lotion

Three inch spikes

A red pair

A black pair

A silver pair

Short little skirts that hug

Tight little rumps

And tight little tops

That reveal almost

All there is to reveal

They desire so much

To be singled out

Yet remain indistinguishable

To their predator

In the savannah

The lioness paces

Then lies low in the tall grasses

Watching the zebras at the watering hole

It matters not which one she takes down

So long as by the end of the hunt

Her prize is a memory on her tongue

And fills her now empty belly.

The red head, the blond,

The brunette it matters not

Tomorrow he will have conveniently lost

the telephone number

And forgotten the name

But tonight he approaches

Ready to trade the cost of a drink

For her prize.