Firepit Soir / copyright Justice Putnam
We met at the art gallery.
(but not really)
She was a security guard,
guarding against the likes of
the Henry Moore’s steely-Dan’s
that often stood, in her presence.
Her steel-grey uniform,
the one the Union had cunningly tarnished,
sheathed her real, humanitarian essence,
but her pink sari, was her sexier cover.
They didn’t like pink, for a Rep.
Her hip-cocked lips, natural mind,
could roar them white, skinless.
They didn’t like being skinless.
A compassionate Lion, too.
She use to whip me with her eyelash,
then swallow me whole, to cure my wounds.
It’s been a while since I licked her tears.
She’s a lawyer now.
-- Roland Hardy
“Anita and the Union”
(but not really)
She was a security guard,
guarding against the likes of
the Henry Moore’s steely-Dan’s
that often stood, in her presence.
Her steel-grey uniform,
the one the Union had cunningly tarnished,
sheathed her real, humanitarian essence,
but her pink sari, was her sexier cover.
They didn’t like pink, for a Rep.
Her hip-cocked lips, natural mind,
could roar them white, skinless.
They didn’t like being skinless.
A compassionate Lion, too.
She use to whip me with her eyelash,
then swallow me whole, to cure my wounds.
It’s been a while since I licked her tears.
She’s a lawyer now.
-- Roland Hardy
“Anita and the Union”
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