Like a Paris sewer
May 18, 2012
Souvenirs From Hell
Black streets. Rain wet. Raincoat. High heels. They’re playing Frank Sinatra. In one of the apartment. Balconies. I feel like I must be in New Jersey. You know this isn’t going any place. But professional.
You quote me. Dante. And I ask you what’s the view like. Underneath all that make-up. I thought you were originally from Pakistan. But it was Buffalo. New York. You’re a nurse in your other life.
You want me to be your pimp. After several weeks. You like the sound of one man’s fist. Against another’s ribs. I won’t have to do much. Just keep an eye. On the cat. And collect the rent. From the naked john’s. And occasionally. Give you a slap.
My bluff has been called. I don’t want to live in the street. I don’t have the stomach. For the company. And I don’t like the smell. Of the cash box. Like a Paris sewer. And the safe’s all stuck to the wall. Like souvenirs. From hell.