Johns

Johns

Midnight in Neptune's Two: the bar seethes.
The Filipino band belts out seventies rock,
the right stuff for the Johns perched on the stools,
heavy hams shifting. They sip their beers,
nodding to each other, vague and cool,
the big fish in an overcrowded pool.

The girls, in pairs or singly, line the walls,
or look into the long mirrors as they dance,
critically assessing the shift of breast,
the amplitude of pelvic thrust ' and watch
the pale-eyed Johns for a sign of interest.

It is always a matter of perspective:
the Johns, fat-walleted, see themselves
as hunters, lean and magnetic, and this array
of brown lithe bodies rightful prey,
morsels for the evening's banquet.

Look again: the truth is that the Johns,
were they ever predators, are become the prey,
made harmless by age and self-delusion:
bloated, pale and toothless sharks
wallowing in a shoal of swift barracuda.