THE PROFESSIONAL

My lovelies want shadows, silk covered mirrors, and withered flowers. My lovelies put their snouts to the ground without ever finding a single truffle - unless by mistake. My lovelies want me to channel the ghost of a ghost who hated himself for feeding his lovelies. My lovelies want arid blood; mine, like others, once, wanted his. So I sit, and I bleed - the kind of blood they find palatable. Until I'm bone dry. My lovelies pay the bills.