Tall, too thin, hair like smoke and string, he’s dressed not
odd enough to turn folks off. She waits, Penn Station,
friends will bring their car, now stuck in traffic. When a cop
strolls past, the con man freezes, doesn’t talk
to women, only businessmen. She sees
him ask, wallets open, coins, often
bills change hands. He might have AIDS? – seems
polite – perhaps his mother taught him “please” and
“thanks.” She estimates his daily take -a buck per hit, 15 per
hour, no tax. Jeez. For years she got up, dressed, commuted,
hated
work. She hands him five – “Been watching you.” “Naughty
girl – to spy on what I do.”
Margaret A. Robinson began writing poems in June 2001 and has had over one hundred accepted in publications like California Quarterly, Fiddlehead, and Bathtub Gin. A print chapbook of thirty of her cheekiest poems, “Sparks,” is hot off the press at Pudding House Publications.