Puma Perl

Scarcity

She always showed up with a suitcase and a story.

The rest of her luggage was left behind on a bus.

Or a man held her belongings hostage, refusing
to release them until she paid him or slept with him.

Or a livery cab driver rode off with all her possessions
packed away in the trunk and she didn’t know his name.

Poor Karyn.

Poor Karyn with a ‘y’.

Even in the rock n roll world, there are lonely men,
short on looks and long on cash. Or so it seemed
to poor little Karyn with a ‘y’. One conversation
and they were taking selfies cheek to cheek.

The men appeared blissful in the photos,
wide grins alongside her fake toothy smile.

Another couple of shots and she and her suitcase
had taken up residence in their apartments.

A few days or a week later, she gave them the cold shoulder
and refused to leave until they paid her. If they didn’t,
she said she’d cry rape. The men were scared. They paid.

She rolled into the Treehouse one summer night.
Informed my friend Don that she needed to put her
suitcase in the trunk of his car. Don knew better.

Not a chance, he said, and walked away.

She sat down on the settee, opposite the small
round table where I’d rested my shot of whiskey.

Gave me the smile and requested that I remove
my drink since she was newly sober and tempted.

Then get the fuck out of the bar, I said.

She’s still up to her old tricks but not down here.

Karyn with a ‘y’ has finally moved on.