Prostitute’s Poem

Come to me, my work-a-day soldier 

I am your furlough from war

From your suffocating cubicle 

From stale coffee and birthday card signings.

I am your late night at work.

Your boys’ night out.

Your unexpected traffic jam.

I await you with curiosity

Your velvet attack

How will you feel, I wonder?

Your stony bones in soft flesh

Your warm, moist breath, heavily panted across my breasts

And the muffled hurried beat of your fist-sized heart.

I can moan and shriek, if it helps

Urge you on with deep,

baritonal bovid-like pronouncements of carnal satiety

But my satisfaction is simple, my bar is set low.

It is merely the sweet, sweet draining

Of your 

bank account

Into mine.

(just a little bit)

XXOO.