3 Digit Minimum

She descended the

pent house

by stare…

revolving stare,

though the elevator definitely hit the top floor–

Pit stopping in

Push-me

Pullman kitchen

for the best blade

(in the drawer, but settled for church key)

to whittle Lorna Doones—

dreamin’ of Poe, because hey!

(close enough)

the maiden was one sharp cookie—

Packing

heat

and party subs

(less yellow, and brash was the vessel)

for intended

Pick Nick

–long on sandwiches

checked cloth,

and trouser pockets stuffed with

cheat sheets

(crib notes in change)

on account’a—woah!

that fella wore him some smart-ass pants

–pretty much exclusively

trip-trip-tripping

to North

via South

(at rush hour)

since—seriously.

They lacked common sense.