Sugar Man
I can hear Sugar Man´s electric Skoda three streets over.
He´ll be clean-cut when he gets here,
fresh from work, he´s a
head-of-department company man,
straight-edged desperado manchild
raised on denial
married to concrete
.
I have never had to ask Sugar Man for money;
it just always came, in an envelope,
via wire transfer,
or on my very own bank
and bakery
money-cards.
Sugar Man had been looking for someone like me,
who´d handily learned
how to entertain and hide
to get what she needs.
When the doorbell rings, I click my tongue at myself,
pull on my boots,
walk down the stairs,
hoping my self-betrayal will fall and die
somewhere on the steps,
on my way down.