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The five he bought cigarettes with was gilded, maybe with some special ink, wasn’t counterfeit, Ronny the clerk checked. Nor could Ronny wash the dust off for days. He had remarkable luck finally getting his Sugar into bed with him, but Ronny didn’t connect this windfall to the unusual man with glittery dandruff and dirty money.

The taxi girl always got the first in the pack, “part of my tip” she joked putting it to her lips. She had “known” him for years, driving him from work (whatever that was). Perhaps freakish, but flattering. He said his favorite freckle was just below her earlobe. He’d like to kiss it, but he never took off his trench coat.

The doorman knew it was 5C because of the wide shoulders under the big shapeless coat. “John,” 5C greeted as he walked by. Sometimes (not tonight but sometimes) he tipped and John wondered if it was so he wouldn’t tell anyone that 5C never actually went through the door.

Even John couldn’t imagine how skinny lithe he was when slipping out of that coat, how kindled his skin looked when the city lights hit the fairy dust. Luminous wings unfurled, cracked from being cramped and still all day. A rat as his witness he fluttered, flipped, and flew up to his balcony.


Prompt: Urban Fantasies
Form: Prose Poem
Info on Prose Poems: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5787