Niagara?

Who turned you into a whore?

Each night they paint your face

with spotlights perched on garish shore

Hotel chains strung around your neck

make your gorge seem petite,

but your indifference to it all

keeps your misty kiss sweet

Niagara

Churning waters falling hard

Pounding rocks,

a prisoner in Nature’s yard,

doing time for the tourists

who come to cleanse their spirits

in heart-shaped tubs

Niagara

They turn your water into gold

with tawdry souvenirs

exploiting your dramatic pose

Cameras love that horseshoe curve,

that hypnotic heaving chest

unlike any other whore's

You are a fascinating,

cascading, thundering roar

A primitive, erotic,

wet harlot of yore

We gather at your hip

to watch your beauty flex,

as sheets on Erie’s bed

part to show your brazen ledge

Your honeymoon ended

once the white men came,

all over your innocent face

c)  C. Butler 2004