Poetry

Sam Spade’s Monday

My sock-drawer is hosting a Singles Party.

My old slippers have hidden the new ones.

My clothes feel cold and slip me on under them.

The month’s free trial of my hair-piece

ends tomorrow. My line of credit

at the liquor-store has gone dead.

The bank is holding my money for ransom.

The car I tried to have boosted for the

insurance wouldn’t start. My only call

is a phone survey on business confidence.

The broad I tried to save went back to her pimp.

The kids have given me weekend custody

of my ex-wife and her mother.

The lock on my office has given up.

Sitting in my chair, feet up on my desk,

her scarlet toenails tickling my diploma,

her long legs heading for trouble,

is a woman I have never seen before

except in one of those dreams

you wouldn’t even tell your shrink.

She gives me a Mona Lisa smile and purrs:

“Mr. Rosendahl, I’m hoping you can help me.”

I tell her this is the second floor,

the attorney is up on three.

“Charges” I feel like adding.

I’ve never been lucky with partners.

  

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