The girl wore her tentacle dress to the red carpet affair.
Onlookers gasped and stared at her legs, dark and slim as young reeds
among the waving bothria of her tentacle dress.
Many women and one man wished they owned a tentacle dress
Because the girl looked so powerful and sudden, so intelligent and secure.
If the predators arrived
she could thrust with the waving, orange hydrostats of her tentacle dress and escape, leaving long trails of bubbles
and if the predators continued to follow her, she could release
a cloud of ink
leaving them confused and lost
while she shot ahead through lapis depths:
Hungry. Strong. Alone. Free.
YOU ARE READING
Waitress at the Morpheme Cafe
PoetryScribbles sent in by morse code through the ether.
