My penis breathes in the hookers
as late afternoon decency changes its business attire
into evening depravity – a masculine shirt and straight-legged jeans
The night whispers water-based lube and tight-fitting condoms
She takes the $50 bill from my hand
“Nobody pays in $50s anymore”, she says
I tip her a twenty – cause I want to see her again
Her drugs ain’t bad and she brings her own pipe
Her name is Rose – and it might be her real name
Her face looks uptown, but she’s in a sleazy leopard print dress
– it’s tight
With lips and legs that cross from one end of the city to the other
The pipe sizzles as the lighter beneath it caresses it with fire
“Your backseat ain’t too bad” – her Jersey accent betraying her
“Where you stayin?”, I ask, while looking away
at a neon red café sign, barely visible from the alley
“You know, I’m here and there.”
“Yeah, I know”, I say
Crisp mid-winter air assaults me, as she opens the car door
With smeared and disheveled lipstick, she smiles at me
“I dig it”, she says
I watch her walk away into the night, fuck-me pumps semi-limping
I turn on the ignition and adjust myself
Making sure to use my signal as I turn right onto the main street
City streetlights exhale, as their glow extinguish into dawn
