. . . and Over

As for Dee, why say
the night is his
for the taking . . .
He knows how he lives
and why.

I was a whore once
on Miami Beach,
where the rich guys
come looking for you
to ask you, How much?
or Cuanto?
It’s a living.
My old man was gone,
mother sold herself,
she said I wasn’t
too good to let men
fuck me, she did . . .

He puts his book
back on the shelf.
Memoirs in progress,
he calls it Poe,
not Dee,
sharpens his pencil
and sleeps for an hour,
maybe two, but up
in time
for closing time.
That’s when the marks
appear outside,
wait for you to score.
They love to offer
themselves.

I comb my blond mane
and let it hang
to my shoulders,
leaving my bed
to work in theirs.

(12 May 2013)

copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander