My Pink Pouch

is a war zone.

Cradle
of tools,
weapons,
swords.

A warm host
that welcomes even
spits
from prowlers
that clings and
seeps
on its supple
wall.

A self-lubricating
battlefield
where intruding
warriors
politely salute
to its smugness;
point
the bantering.
prickling
spindle
like an edgy guerilla;
and
surrenders
in jade
before its pulsating
redness.

My pink pouch,
however,
lured
one sturdy soldier
home.

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