Your forgettable face

is smudged between blush

and rouge

the painted portrait

of a frail hooker

her beauty is bought

and sold

on the cold cobble stones

of the black market

the street lights

wash her face

and for a minute

she almost looks innocent

the halogen glow makes

her halo float

three stories up

and only inches from her window

where she stares into it

as she wonders what death is like

and she earns another dollar

as a soul regresses into an animal

it was Kenmore Square

when my parents were poor

and I was just a baby

a cold night, while i was warm

A poet saw her , under the street light

the rain going in slow motion

he asked her if she would like

to get warm

and he was too lethargic

to be threatening

she sat on the edge of the bed

while he sat in a chair

at a desk

covered with poems and stories

that she could never read

She told him the she had to pee

and he told her how the wash room

was in repair

so he handed her a mason jar

and told her she could go behind

the dresser

she started to cry

as she took the mason jar from his hands

behind the dresser

she squatted with her panties around her knees

pleased, because no had ever been so nice to her

in her short life