There's a time during the commission of a crime that one turns to prayer.
And if the prayer goes unanswered, it turns to pure poetry.
And if the prayer goes unanswered, it turns to pure poetry.
Come On, Ash, Make the Call by Morgan Boyd
 |
 |
Come
on, Ash, make the call, I whisper to my phone.
Come
on, Ash, make the call, I mumble, squatting by a rancid dumpster on the side of
the Long John Silver’s in the dark.
Come
on, Ash, I say a little too loud, thinking about the line wrapped around the
block for Star Wars earlier this evening at the Cinema-Plex.
Come
on, Ash, make the call. I’m in position across
the street from the credit union.
Come
on, make the call. I’ve got the note and
the red laser pen.
Ash,
make the call, because if I wait any longer, I’ll chicken out.
Come
on, Ash, make the call when you see the manager pull out of the parking lot
with the nightly drop after locking up the Cinema-Plex.
Make
the call, and I’ll cross the street, tape the note to the drop box, and hide
behind the dumpster again.
Come
on. Three minutes later she’ll pull into
the credit union, and read the note taped to the drop box: Greetings
Cinema-Plex employee, there is a gun with a laser scope pointed at you right
now. Please throw the moneybag into the
bushes, and you will not be shot. Thank
you.
Come
on, Ash, make the call. She’ll shit
herself with fear, and throw the cash into the bushes when she sees the beam
from the laser pen pointed at her.
Come
on, Ash, make the call. We’ll stay high for a month.
Come
on, Ash, make the fucking call—
