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Painted ladies 
Platform boots 
Mini skirts 
Stockings, garter belts 

Low slung Vs 
Bubbling over with mottled mummeries 
Hanging around Butcher’s Corner 
On the hook 

The pray orbit 
Slowing down, speeding up 
Slow…gone 
Around a corner, back again 

Red car arrives 
A Tom tentatively 
Extends his index finger 
‘You’ 

Chubby whore saunters over 
Too much sass 
For that much ass 
She leans in the car window 

‘Head?’ 
‘Ten quid.’ 
He scans her lumps, ‘I’ve got five.’ 
‘Go on then.’ 

[We’ll be eating tonight] 

Opening the door 
Pushing the passenger seat forward 
Saying 
‘In the back, stay low.’ 

Ums and ahs; disgruntled, shamed 
Hard times, little pride 
Squeezing titanic thighs in-between fake leather 
Beehive head pressed to the back seat 

Familiar odors filling her lungs 
Milk, cough drops 
Shampoo, crayons 
Telltale signs of little ones 

Nostalgia boils 
Gulping, suppressing tears 
Shoving guilt from her nut 
There’s work to be done, no regrets 

Tires churn pebbles 
Arrival at Rubber John Alley 
Her office 
A life 

His zipper strains a loaded gun 
In under five minutes 
Dirty deed done 
Not even time to soft boil an egg 

With blind ego intact she declines a ride back 
Done for the night, enough flow 
Over the road 
Into the park 

To three little girls identically dressed 
On swings, dangling legs 
Ultra-white socks to their knees 
Giggling

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