Street Talk

Maybe this is just street talk, but rumor has it the local poetry group is a front for the Mob. They meet in the back room of a cafe. One day I entered, looking to buy a poem. The sign in the window hawked Poems for Sale-Poets Inside. No one was behind the counter, so I hit the buzzer.
A minute later a tough looking, middle aged woman with powerful forearms came from the back room and eyed me up and down.
"What can I do for you, fella?"
"I'd like to buy a poem."
"Whatcha looking to spend?"
"Maybe $30."
"For that you get a haiku."
"That's only three lines."
"Who sent you?"
"I saw the sign in the window."
"Watch your tone, buster."
"What can I get for $40?"
"A kick in the ass. Shut your pie hole or you'll be kissing the sidewalk." This from two gruff voices in the shadows by the back room entrance. I swallowed hard, as the woman bore a hole right through me with her blazing eyes. I quickly handed over two twenties, which she stuffed down her stained blouse. She went behind the counter and I shuddered, envisioning her popping up, expelling hot lead into my gut. Instead, she handed me a crumpled piece of paper. A ten line ode to Hudson County, New Jersey by a local pol currently serving time for embezzlement.
I shot out of there fast as my legs would move and rushed up the block, too scared to look back. I read the poem under a street lamp and knew I'd been taken. It sucked. But the image of that woman's cold glare prevented me from doing anything foolish.