Dinner

I published a novel by the name of “Ram Slade, Shamus” a few years ago. It is a take-off of the Mickey Spillane books. I wound up writing a few poems concerning the atmosphere, and especially Ram Slade’s take on women. Here is one of them.  
 
 
The dame wasn't bashful  
I struck a match  
She sucked on the Chesterfield  
Inhaled once  
She stuck it into the Molten Lava Cake desert  
The butt wore a lipstick tiara  
I sipped my rosé  
Wishing it was a draft  
It was her party, doubt she knew what a draft was  
She was on in years  
Still had that little girl face  
Unbecoming on a matronly woman  
Too much lipstick  
Too much rouge  
Laughed too raucous  
Tried to set me at ease  
With ribald jokes  
Clichéd, well-worn ribald jokes  
She gave me her best come-on look  
It was frightening  
I smiled  
It was her party  
It was her play  
Society dame looking for rough trade  
Could get nasty  
Could be that is what the lady wants  
 
Have you ever killed anyone?  
 
Her voice was whiskey gravely never mind the rosé  
Eyes were glazed and her mouth trembled  
In anticipation to my answer  
 
"Probably no one you know," I gave her that  
She suppressed a smile  
 
Would you pour the wine?  
 
It was not a request
The creature needed bedtime stories  
Her emancipated chest rose and fell rapidly  
Anticipation will do that  
I poured the wine  
She placed a hand on my stubble  
I hadn’t shaved on purpose  
 
I think I would like the street life, she whispered conspiratorially.  
 
A look of fearful excitement passed over her face  
High color rose into her cheeks  
Studied me closely  
So closely, so intimately  
Goosebumps made like the Indy 500 up my spine  
A shudder shook me  
She mistook for animal magnetism  
Made her day  
 
Sometimes being a macho Private Eye  
Means you have to go undercover  
I was dreading this night