Underneath My Window
Underneath my window sits
a hooker without her shoes.
Lost in a paper bag.
She falls back on the side walk,
and smiles up at me.
Later a knock at my door.
It is she.
With her bare feet,
and bag of dolls,
she paddle a shore.
My space is humble, I explain,
as she drifts to the orient
and asks for a drink.
“Have you ever owned a goldfish?”
“No.”
The light turns slowly old
and smells of gamy lace.
There is nothing living in my single room,
but lots of dried trinkets and things.
A bouquet of roses turned upside down.
A blue plaster dog, that turns pink when it rains.
A photo of great grand mother.
Me.
Her hands are remarkable.
Tapered by ease.
She looks at me directly.
I pour another drink.
I know she has been places.
Places I have not known.
She has crawled under the nails of many men,
hid in their sock drawer
in tunnels and sewers.
I see her in Canaan
on the threshing floor,
her Paris sequins glinting for show.
She pours herself another tumbler of freedom.
I await her wisdom.
Her window into my desolation.
She licks the last drops from the cap of the bottle.
Metal catches her tongue
to sketch a thin line of blood.
Her sand bag body lowers into the well
and I return to watch the city rise.
Orange is the color of a new day.
Outside my window she strolls away.
