Seven P.M. Thursday,
Italian Bistro, three ladies
and too much Chianti.
They act like old tigress's
who've found a zebra foal
and can't decide between
mothering it or eating it.
From the back of the cab one says
to me will I give a free ride if she flashes me,
lifts her blouse
in all her shrunken drooping glory.
I'm sorry, Ma'am, that won't even cover the tip.
She laughs so hard her teeth fall out.
As she leaves the cab, her claws
drag softly across the back of my neck.
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