06-02-2010, 04:50 PM
On the corner she stands,
On the corner she rests,
An eternal tradeswoman, no man's
profession, conservatively dressed
for attending a client. Open
all hours, her legs walk warily,
soliciting surgically, a BMW or Mercedes
slows by, some stop, starting scarily.
A skilled negotiator takes no prisoners
on prices, a transaction haggled hard.
Steelily she steps and enters his car.
A lecherous lunchbreak, just after midday
her shift starts, selling her provisions.
Fifteen, Twenty minutes, Half an hour after
a weakened woman alights, returns from her mission,
hardens herself, resumes her position.
Opposite, a bar, lounge of the night, in windows
more risqué than reality, shackled by stockings, shows
a slutty mannequin inviting men in, an establishment
in a sea of haunting red lights.
It's early evening as i step out my door
nipping down the shops, past the nieghbourhood whore.
Cradling her phone like an infant survivor of a fire,
cigarette rising to her mouth; a poison pacifier.
Tear streaking down her face, glares
at curiosity, half concealed stares,
pity, as the Titanic theme blares
a single drop stains her facade with cares.
Returning with fruit I pass her place,
in the foetal position, hands in her face.
I ask "Was ist los?" and "Bist du OK?"
Sobs suddenly silent, she waves me away.
On the corner she rests,
An eternal tradeswoman, no man's
profession, conservatively dressed
for attending a client. Open
all hours, her legs walk warily,
soliciting surgically, a BMW or Mercedes
slows by, some stop, starting scarily.
A skilled negotiator takes no prisoners
on prices, a transaction haggled hard.
Steelily she steps and enters his car.
A lecherous lunchbreak, just after midday
her shift starts, selling her provisions.
Fifteen, Twenty minutes, Half an hour after
a weakened woman alights, returns from her mission,
hardens herself, resumes her position.
Opposite, a bar, lounge of the night, in windows
more risqué than reality, shackled by stockings, shows
a slutty mannequin inviting men in, an establishment
in a sea of haunting red lights.
It's early evening as i step out my door
nipping down the shops, past the nieghbourhood whore.
Cradling her phone like an infant survivor of a fire,
cigarette rising to her mouth; a poison pacifier.
Tear streaking down her face, glares
at curiosity, half concealed stares,
pity, as the Titanic theme blares
a single drop stains her facade with cares.
Returning with fruit I pass her place,
in the foetal position, hands in her face.
I ask "Was ist los?" and "Bist du OK?"
Sobs suddenly silent, she waves me away.
![[-]](https://gayspeak.com/images/duende_v3_local/collapse.png)
A moving observation. It all sounds rather tough.
