Polly

It's August, East End, eighteen eighty-eight

and chilling sheets of midnight rain await,

for thrice today I squandered doss on gin

and Willmott's tosses me with vicious haste.

Now down Buck's Row I stagger 'gainst the wind

to prostitute this worn and weary skin

amid the pungent scent of human waste

that no amount of alcohol can dim.

The sky glows red with light'ning interlaced,

a welcome omen- permanent escape-

whose visage weaves through curtains of damp fog,

straight into my impoverished embrace.

Steel fingers wrap around my neck and lock;

they squeeze until I'm limp with breathless shock,

then gently lower me onto the street

before a Liston slashes through my frock.

Two swift flicks through my dainty neck complete,

the suff'ring flows and pools 'til I'm deceased;

he gently lifts my skirts up to my stays,

but never does he once seek to mistreat.

One rip into my belly, his eyes blaze

while mine stare straight ahead, their dimness grave;

released, my specter lifts to meet his gaze-

I thank Jack, then float off so he can play.