Homme Fatale Poem by Sonny Rainshine

She knew he was filth
the minute she laid eyes on him.

What did she expect to find
here in this brooding whiskey joint
in the bowels of the Bowery?

“Buy me a drink? ”
he had said after she told him
the barstool next to her
was taken.

“You disgust me,
you narcissistic bum, ”
she said.

“But, babe, you gotta admit, ”
he said as he got comfortable
on the stool and lit a panatella,
“I’ve got baby-blues
you’d like to drown
your sorrows in.”

“Like you’ve drowned
your liver in, I suppose? ”
she laughed, sinking into
his heartbreak-blue eyes.

“Come on beautiful.
Buy us a drink. I just got
laid off. Sales exec.”

“Oh, God, a traveling salesman.
You’re knocking on the wrong door,
handsome. I’ve had plenty
of what you’ve got for sale.”

Pulling out his wallet
and motioning the bartender:
“Now don’t get vulgar.
It doesn’t suit a fine lady
like you.”

“You make me sick, ”
she insisted as
she clinked her
freshly poured bourbon
and water with his.

“Sick with luv, baby.
Sick with luv.”
He said as their hands
abandoned the bourbons
and sought warmth elsewhere.