cookie salesman

your friend tells
you a story
of the time
he was in new
york city on a business
trip. he was
a salesman
for cookies
and airline snacks.
angry at his wife
again,
for her spending
and lack of affection,
meaning sex,
he felt lonely
and beat,
he struck up a
conversation
with a woman at the bar.
young and lovely, a
farm girl from iowa.
lipsticked,
and heeled.
she drank, he
drank, they moved in
closer to one another
along the rail,
talking kids
and family, work
and the world.
how hard it was to find
love, real love.
by midnight, she
said i'm going up,
but handed him a
note, her room
number and name
freshly inked.
she left an imprint
of her kiss on the paper,
then left.
when he got to
his room he took
a quick shower, stepped
into clean
clothes, he put
on a dash of cologne,
brushed his teeth,
then called wife
to say goodnight.
trembling with
excitement he called
the woman's room.
she asked him first,
sweetly in a midwestern
whisper,
if he was a cop,
then gave him the prices
for what she
would perform.