JUNGLE IN THE CITY

 
In the jungle,
if you’re not sweating,
then you’re not living.
Unless you’re a lounge lizard.
Their blood is much too cold
to be bothered by steamy heat.

It’s after dark and the denizens are out.
There are jaguars,
chrome‑plated felines with bulging chest hairs,
parked sideways outside the more popular
of the neon caves.
They’re hungry. They’re famished even.
But they do their best not to look it.

The prey shows up
and they are dressed to be eaten,
in slinky little numbers
that cost too much and cover too little.
They strut like they own the night.
Too bad that the night owns everybody.

Inside the club, it’s wall to wall wildlife:
spiders as big as tabletops,
piranhas swimming below,
while vultures lean against the bar.
Everything is meat to them,
in various stages of decay.

And there are snakes everywhere -
some with scales, some doused in cologne,
many a forked tongue making deals
while fangs await their moment.

Vines and other stranglers
wrap around whatever’s soft,
whatever’s slow, whatever’s foolish enough
to show their money.
Everything crawls and bites and hustles.
It’s Gaia’s grand plan,
or maybe just Saturday night
after the clubs heat up.
Drawn by the lights,
animals show themselves.