The Professional

That man talks
like he ate
a fake newspaper
Is shitting out
a correction but afterward
can’t get himself quite clean

As if he swallows
lawsuits for the mob
the way
other men
eat swords for fun
and money

As if he was just served
a subpoena written 
in acid on leather
Chewed it real slow
Coughed it out
soaked in bile

As if he can smell
the white stench 
upon which he hangs
his every word
but to him
it smells 

like roses
grown
in dank soil 
piled high over
fresh 
enemy graves