Wednesday’s Child
She put the butcher block knife
to his throat
and asked him to tell her which
child was full of woe.
Do I get a phone a friend?
I’m not Alexander Graham Bell,
she shot back.
It was true.
Those ripped stockings
were like a cutter’s paradise.
But he had never been good
when put on the spot.
Can I ask the audience?
he played for time.
She looked around
the otherwise empty kitchen
and repeated her demand.
And to think he had found this one
on a popular dating site.
Claiming a rigorous vetting process
which he now doubted
with the blade dug so deep into
his panicked jugular.
What, no 50:50 eliminator?
Do I look like Regis Fucking Philbin
to you?
She kind of did,
that silver fox pompadour
and face like a stretched condom.
But he wasn’t going to say that
with the knife still in
her hand.
Horror Sleaze Trash 