The Oldest Profession
I never knew her name.
A child among braying whores laughing loudly at the bar.
I remember she always wore
A big red rose in her hair.
I heard many different stories on how
She came to entertain
Or at least make the brothel the least bit more legitimate.
However it happened - it happened
And I made my routine
With a little leftover after payday
To sit in the corner and listen to her play.
A blue painted violin became one
With her shoulder over a red, rustling silk dress.
It was blurry as empty glasses crowded
My table and the lingering decision to fall into her arms,
Who was currently wrapping her fingers in the
Dock worker’s thick hair.
Still she stood in the dim light,
Playing badly the same song over and over.
Her eyes flickering, even though they were shut -
I danced in my seat, almost over the side.
Figures and colors of others drinking
And carousing shifted in front of her.
Dreams from last night haunted me -
It got hot as I decided that I would take her
With the sad money left crumpled in sweat
In my pocket.
As I found that comfort I thought of her,
The music and a release I allowed myself
Before drunkenly staggering two blocks down
And passing out on my bedroom floor.