Strange comfort in the idea of whores
attendants at the great feast of needs
half naked lunch ladies,
breast or thigh?
their endless shifting,
pooled to the edges of a brushed metal tray
a whore armed with her ladle
neatly apportioning desire, ennui
distant sirens catch on her hairnet
blues shift, endless in your night
sirens punctuating the hollow clicking of thin heels.
may i?
Sunday, May 8, 2011
May I call you, John?
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