Meeting with Mobsters
The lawyer I work for speaks like a thug. I guess that’s why his clients
are mostly Mafiosi types. Take Washington’s own, the infamous
pin-striped Joe Nesline, for example. He enters the wait area,
respectfully removes his fedora. Blue eyes sparkle along with a diamond
solitaire ring. He swaggers into the boss’s office, flashes a smile my
way. He’s handsome, alright, and down right charming.
a shot of whiskey
for the potted plant
On my way to the bus depot, I stop at the Hilton to deliver a large
manila envelope. Mr. Nesline opens the door half way. His bejangled
young playmate blushes as she covers her bare self with a white tiger
skin rug, its head against her breasts.
I pretend not to notice
the tommy gun