the part time job

you see your friend betty,
the church secretary,
pulling up
into her driveway behind
the wheel of
a brand new mercedes
benz. it's black
and shiny with darkened
windows. it's a gangster
car, except for the pink
ribbon for breast cancer
on the back bumper.
yo, betty, you yell
across the street.
what up with the new rod
girl? which bank did you
rob? she comes across
the street walking her
white french poodle. i
got a part time job,
she says, so i can afford
a lot of things now.
times are tough, a girl
has to do what she's
got to do.
oh really, do tell, you
say, staring at the new
car across the street.
what kind of job is it?
she leans in close, and
whispers into your ear.
i'm a sex phone operator.
she giggles a little,
pulling on her pooch
as it pees on the ground
next to your shoe.
say what?
oh yeah, she says.
i have a special phone
in my house that i tell
the kids not to answer
and when it rings
i go into bathroom,
throw a towel
against the bottom
of the door and then talk
trash to all these lonely men
around the world.
around the world? you say.
yup, got a regular in
australia, kip, and
another regular in
yemen, mr. omar. it's all
on the credit card,
and you just keep them
in the car
like a lost taxi driver.
sweet you say. well, it's
working for you.
cha ching. hey, i have
to run, she says, i hear
that phone ringing. see ya.