City Plains
Kathy Kreycik
The pimp king watches through Serengeti shades
past the golden flash of hood ornament,
Overseer of the working pride that stalks, quietly,
hunting for him with languorous eyes and grocery bag diversions:
"We wuz jus on the way home from the sto', offisa."
"Well, ladies, if you're still 'on your way home from the store'
when we swing back in an hour, we'll have to take you for a little ride."
They wear neon colors that camouflage their hearts
and blend them like greasepaint into their surroundings
till you can't see where the billboard curve of hips
and the kiln-fired lacquer red nails begin and end,
and they watch the herds, singling out the weak
waiting on the asphalt plains.
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