Picaroon Poetry - Issue #13 - September 2018

for being drenched in your warm saliva.
You pecked at a man (earning eight pounds per hour)
for a solid ten minutes, measured
by the hands of your Rolex. In the end,
documents were produced, or at least
some agreement was reached. You were waved through
one more of life’s tiresome little doors,
ushered past one more exhausted, little,
foreigner. Your wife flashed her perfect teeth
at me, her blue eyes crinkling (attractively)
at the corners, and you took her hand
as you stalked the long corridor.
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