mistuh briefcase man

four fifty-seven,
the taste calls
like open mouthed
baby vultures~
pushing his addiction,
checking his decency,
running
to the sordid object
of his insatiable thirst.
catch him if you can,
judge him if you must,
but his tell tale
deviance
serves as stage left
for the entrance
of miss right.
seedy rooms,
transformed
and transfigured~
the musky smell of love,
overbearing and tart~
lend themselves to the predestined
flicker
snuffed out by sweat,
cologne and cheap moscato.
two ruby reds
engulf five that's called nine
and he watches
while the inches disappear.
face down,hair tossed...
all he desires
is the fruit of her labor.
a chocolatte dream
pulled from the underbelly
of fortune five,
she tastes so good~
his secret from the hood.
yet this clandestine
copulation
is far from pristine.
she gives a fake moan,
takes the prick from the prick
and dreams of six figures
as his seed grows.