A Brown Paper Bag.

   
   
   
Vagabond trips, on her own shoes.  
Smiles at the porter, feeling beads  
cascading her arch; meeting her
holy, slithering negative skin begging
in praying hands. Selling tits and ass,
like chickens in a butcher store.

Still has time for eye-liner, blush and
crimson lips. She calls it 'powder' in
the darkness  of a single lamp-globe
hanging itself from old wire, stapled
to the ceiling.

The floor needed polish too;
just smiles at the porter.
Feeling beads.  
   
   
   
-x-