Old Girls

by Pam Newham

 We stare into each other’s eyes.
The old warthog and me.
Her bristles have thinned.
Her high-heel hoofs chipped.
Her tusks ground down.
She’s a bit battered.
A bit worn.
Alone now.
No babies to tug
her drooping teats.
Pretty near the end, I’d say.
Perhaps a leopard’s coup de grace?
More likely a slow wasting away.
Her eyes say, that’s how it is, old girl,
that’s how it is for us all.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s