I think of you now in that bar in Tijuana
sitting the stool smoking a cigarette
cadging a drink from me in trade for talk
about the way you are spending your life.
Your creamy blonde hair spills not quite
to your shoulders, your breasts a little
smaller than mejicanos require of tits.
Your price is so-many cents after dollars.
Why do I need to know how a woman
rents her body, for how much, where the room
is above. Climb the stairs and out of sight
she would undress leaning your body back
on the bed, attending to what she thinks
you need. How could I know I was hungry,
I believed pulque was all I required.
Men around us warn me she is no good.
Perhaps time passes more enjoyably
if you hear her out from the beginning,
mother with growing children she works for;
I who have no children and will never.
(8 March 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander