Sittin’
and sippin’
Black Tazo Tea latte
in the outdoor Internet café
the one in the bad part of town
I give ‘em all
that come hither look
through my laptop screen
but sell myself
only to the wealthy,
the prestigious ones
who beg for my
pithy assets.

“I don’t come
cheap, friend,
but if you raise your
offer
we could make it
work.”

Deal done
contract signed
the message disappears
into cyber space
a binding oath
with subliminal repercussions.

Perhaps as long as months
or as short as a few days,
digitized or in pulp,
I get all tingly
inside anticipatin’.
Adrenaline pumps,
heart beats
fast
faster still
until the public
finally sees me
. . . naked . . .
in prose.

Then . . . the moment passes.

I return to my lair,
hunched over
like Rodin’s The Thinker,
light-up a cool menthol
and start anew
to sooth
the savage
in each of us
or excite
the dullest
of the bunch.

Okay, I admit it.

I am . . . a whore.

I am . . . a writer.