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The Pest Control Guy By Emry Beattie

Writer's picture: Tin Can PoetryTin Can Poetry

I have a guest coming over

The apple of my eye

The object of my lust

The pest control guy


There’s just something about him

As I peer through my window

With those tight jeans and beard

He looks quite the himbo


The smell of his musk

Mixed with pesticides

It stirs a strange mix

Of feelings inside


Queasy with lust,

Or rat-killing vapour

I’d stick to his side

Like he’s made of flypaper


I open the door

Dressed in only a gown

Hanging off of my shoulder

As his eyes linger down


“Why don’t you come in?”

In my breathiest voice

“The bedroom or right here,

I’ll give you the choice.”


He takes a step in

His hands grasping mine

He opens his mouth

As I look into his eyes


Twin orbs like fat roaches

So dark and so round


They look first at me

And then to the ground

“Here would be best”

I can hardly reply

“I can already see

A couple of flies”


“Flies?” I think

My mind only on his

So much that I barely

Hear the next thing he says


“Aye, on the walls

Won’t take a mo”

As my ego receives

A crushing death-blow


Can he not take a hint?

This great hunk of man

That I want him to rail me

As fast as he can


But it seems that his head

Is full only of bugs

And I still can’t stop staring

At his well-chiselled mug


I’ll make conversation

Distract him from work

But the chat is so dry

From this professional berk


Chemical dilution

And spray nozzle hose

While my eyes are begging

That he rip off my clothes


God, those firm hands

Gloves pulled on with a snap

I want them to hold me

Like a strangling rat


His top button undone

And his eyes filled with purpose

The artful ringleader

Of this sensual circus


But now his work is complete

And he turns back to me

“Will there be anything else?”

From his sandy goatee


My mind full of replies

Of what I’d like him to do

But I can’t meet his eyes

And all I say is “thank you”


I stare a hole in his head

As he walks back to the van

Shocked that he thwarted

My masterful plan


Next time I suppose

I’ll be much less subtle

Greet him stark naked

And grab his belt buckle


There’s no accounting for taste

Or the dimness of men

But god, I hope he gets the hint next time

Amen

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