I Drop A Line

I drop a line

With bated breath.

This kind of fishing

Scares me to death.

I never know

What you’ll say.

Most folk have

Their shtick and spiel,

But you come downtown

From way left field.

Then you make

Me pay.

Oh, you never require a dime

As you pummel me softly

And beat my time,

But the squeeze is

Ever so tight.

Your mafia presence

Is felt in the flurry

Of delicious threats.

You leave in a hurry,

And it is only right

That I should hand over

My allowance, milk money,

Lunch ticket, lucky quarter,

And call you “Honey”

All the way back

To my bank,

Where I gladly

Pull up to the ATM

And empty my savings

All out again,

And have you

So to thank.

Cheek in hand

Elbowed, I stare,

Gazing at you

Chirping there,

Swallowing it all

From top to bottom.

Then in a whirlwind

Flash you’re gone.

Hangover empty,

I sit withdrawn,

But, boy, the cojones!

You’ve got ‘em!

-jenn long