I’m telling Skiff that I’d never rat him out. After all, we have the same scars in similar places.
& I know about the fishmonger heist, which girls work the office without panties, the fall of the Chinese broker, who’s missing fingers. Where the missing fingers are kept.
I know that Skiff owns the locks. The rest of us drown in urban intra-uterine despair.
Wives confessing to their husbands about affairs. The husbands considering penis implants. Skiff planting mice in shoe stores, kidnapping the lead witness & torturing him with tiny needles to the tongue.
No. I won’t rat on Skiff.
In this town, no one talks. My mouth is dry. My words have holes.
Because all I want out of this life
is a good blow job in a Penn Station bathroom
by someone without teeth
but who still believes in Easter bunnies
& the ten simple rules of good etiquette.