[FOsen]

Snakes

The snake-farm tourist van disgorges prey,
but no one meriting a touch-and-feel;
slim pickings there, or so he thinks, today.

Then, here she comes—at least her jewelry’s real.
He prods the viper lying on his arm
and slides into a smooth, hypnotic spiel.

. . . . So, touch it, Miss, it doesn’t mean you harm.
She eyes it coldly, as a venomed quip
waits coiled and ready. Still, he’s oozing charm.

Instead, she licks a brightly coppered lip,
then smiles at him—he’s really very sleek—
and slowly cocks a taloned fingertip.

She hasn’t fed in—what—about a week?
Most snakes are shy and gentle, he’s just said,
when scaly hands dart out to stroke her cheek.

A grey, reptilian geezer, nearly dead,
is hissing at him, Not the six I’ve wed.



Frank