Defile me, she said:
sure, but not for $300 I replied,
hanging up the archaic cord phone
as crows hopped like evil portents
squawking over lawns outside
mowed by Willie, the sad-faced
maintenance man who renders
tenant plumbing dysfunctional.
As minutes pass into years,
nothing to do but peck at the laptop
like a trained internet dog.
Where are the real female predators
of sylvan or bucolic yesteryears
who didn't care if poverty was your middle name?
The war on terror proceeds spasmodically
on the electric screens indulging us.
Today my lucky number is "0"
if I want to bet on anything beyond
that pale of dusk, or the entrapment
of Castor & Pollux up there on star-vision,
where the deer of intergalactic space
roam freely with boys of summer
playing in the backyards of Vegas
only the home invaders win at.