Mbombo Poem by Sheila Spargo

Late afternoon. The shadows lengthen
but the angry African sun still glares
on Mbombo's troop taking their ease
among the wisteria's fluttering leaves
and blossom-laden branches.

Mbombo signals pleasure
with half-closed eyes and little ears drawn back
looking as amiable as a baboon can -
not noticeably benign, perhaps,
except to others of his species.

With languid grace he plucks a spray
of delicate purple flowers -
an offering for his beloved -
she of the deep-set golden eyes
and attractively blushing rump.

No other suitors venture near
the chosen of Mbombo the King
for all have seen his savage fangs
and keeping a respectful distance
devour lush blooms in purple-scented shade.