The Tigress
Every picture tells a story,
it is doubly so of faces;
ah, what tales the tigress tells
at dim lit bars in far flung places.
Feline smile on feral lips,
reflections of an almost life;
mascara eyes, phosphorescent stare
honed as the sharpest knife.
Reading minds, dissecting souls,
burning with a look;
the deepest, darkest fantasies
become an open book.
Baring of teeth, clicking of claw,
a rare and savoured thrill;
in the wink of an eye, a swallow of gin,
locked on for the kill.
In seamy, dusky, perfumed night,
cheap scent and cheaper kisses;
cross-haired in the practiced paws,
an aim that never misses.
Prey half dragged to creaking lair,
she moans, cajoles with ease;
the heat and thrust of impassive lust
pulls a victim to his knees.
In the stripping stab of morning light,
reality never the same;
the tigress neither lithe nor sleek,
more dissolute and tame.
Deserting of bed, veiling of form,
shunning the light of day,
the cat demands her share of cream
and fades from black to grey.
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