The Prostitute

Round the corner
In the dilipidated house
By the French window
She sat...

Lips painted bloody
Eyes smoked
Cheekbones heavily rouged
Corset pulled tight
Red stilletos
Cigarette between fingers
Legs crossed
Red Lantern by her side

Night after night
For years
The same story
The giggle
The snub
The moan
The sigh

No justification
No dying parent
No jilting lover
The choice was hers...

Yet a craving
Not for love
Not for rescue
Not for a new life
Just tenderness
Not to be considered inanimate

Each one
The same
Failed lover
Frustrated husband
Desperate teenager
Rough gangster
Suave executive
The same hunger
The same need
The same moves
Stories tumbling out
In between the act
Mumbles,different
Yet the same

Tonight no differnt
Furtive glances
and then in he came
Mechanics followed
And yet the touch
Tender...
After years
She was moved
The tear flowed down
Wet his mouth
And then suddenly
The look of contempt
A shilling tossed
And out he was

Her body sold again
and his soul too
Like all others
So who was the prostitute...

Round the corner
In the dilipidated house
By the French window
She sat...