Cheeks puffed, she’s looking up at a horizontal
hedge fund hairier than last month’s rent,
that broker who flipped her twice from anal to frontal,
over-leveraging her tenement.
This one set terms firm as a stripper’s pole.
He’s all about her service. “You have to beg.”
His money’s on her human capital,
which got to work, but elocution lags
behind the patter. “Baby, I want you. Please,”
she coos. A friend arrives, another friend,
a gun. They lube her backside with axle grease
the smell of degraded toner. When they bend
her over the bed, she spits up caps, she tastes
Detroit, down to its aging industrial base.