My fingers tremble at,
the thought,
of that wicked wench,

How dare you tread,
through my airspace,
my private womb,

And ask your questions,
with no prologue,
and wind your tatters,

And touch my hand,
with that pleading look,
whimper and sniff,

And make me sorry,
for my affluence,
that once was yours,

And then slip by,
to the next fellow,
to make him weep.

Prompt: Sometimes the poorest man leaves his children the richest inheritance. ~Ruth E. Renkel