The Fifth

You ask me if I can claim responsibility

For the fifth of fermented chocolate milk

Found rotting in the bottom of his closet

You ask me if it was I who took scissors

To every scrap of red fabric I could get my hands on

And sewed scarlet A’s to each outfit he owned

You ask me if I have an alibi for the fifth of October

When his mattress was found frying on the fire escape

Charred black and speckled with animal excrement

You ask me if it’s true the I was the one to blame

For the strands of pink hair stuck to his sheets

Left for his poor wife to pluck from her pillowcase

You ask me if I am the type who likes it rough

The kind who carries a pair of handcuffs in her purse

Should she happen to meet the right kind of guy

You ask me if it is true that I was begging for

The rug-burned back and blue-tinged bruises and broken nose

That he so generously bestowed upon me

You ask me if I’m a flirty sort of drunk and wasn’t I

On my fifth vodka tonic the night I first agreed

To slip into the passenger seat of his Prius

You ask me what I was thinking heading over

To his place in a dress like that at night all alone

If I wasn’t on birth control and wasn’t looking for trouble

Well, Officer, in my defense, all I can do is plead the fifth