The Laughter of a Call Girl

Walking along the town street,

hand in hand with loneliness.

The moon flashed through leaves and highlighted a call girl

standing hipshot at a bus stop.

*

Her beauty touted open desire,

I smiled and sidled her,

"I want to write a poem about you,

You, the wild girl of the city."

*

Transfixed by a pale orb,

she spoke these haunting words.

"My existence is amber.

Poems can't express my being.

It is a dark void I swim in.

My soul resides in a dark place.

My skies are tainted black.

There are no rainbows.

*

My skin is a neon welcome sign;

It flashes artificial yellow, green then blue.

an invitation for rough hands

and dirty words to follow me.

I am the sidewalk beneath trampling feet,

crunching and cracking under their weight.

My life exists between legs –

a delicate meat.

The hungry vultures circle above

with sharp beaks and talons to tear

what’s left of me.

*

This suffocating city, these thousands of people

can’t see with eyes washed clean.

Walking over skeletons with hardened hearts,

their eyes burrow through my clothing,

imagining their filthy pleasures.

They come to get me,

pushing me into shadows

where they all belong–

lifeless, still, dead and empty.

Oh, these wooing slaves, pretending to be masters!"

*

She paused as if to say more, but her bus pulled in.

Apologizing, she shook her head,

"I can't miss the bus for a poet."

Yet, one favor she left me.

Before leaving,

she looked back, and guffawed.

The piano jangled away at the nearby bar.

*

Her laughter now wanders with me in the streets,

full of fears, mockery, blame, guilt and questions.

“Oh you city of 'civilized' people,

wear a brave face and don't hide from the cracks.”