Lethal

by Melanie Browne 

He bragged that he once built his

own electric chair, and that it worked,

and that is how his best friend died

back in Indiana.

he boasted that his uncle

was John-Gotti  and all he had to

do was “make a phone call,”

and that in an instant he and I could

jet-set across the planet,

he showed me his Pale-green back-pack

That contained all his worldly belongings,

The St. Christopher charm, an old polaroid

of a mine-field, (he didn’t say how he got it)

I didn’t go all the way with him,

because I knew he was a liar,

but he got to second base, (possibly it was third)

because the possibility that he was related

to a mob-boss, however far-fetched,

really turned me on.