neon window

 My eyes have lost their sheen,
I am a dead thing.
Leering punks vie for my attention,
they whisper and make gestures.
I search for you among the faces.
Traffic is slow tonight…
looking, not buying.
Hard times have taken a toll on carnality.

A snapshot stirs my anger but there
is rent to consider.
I find your note in my pocket.
Liar…men call all the shots.
Tears well up but do not spill over.

I smile sweetly at the young soldier,
coaxing him to stay. I dim the red
light and he follows.

“Do you like Amsterdam?”
He stammers the obligatory
“you are beautiful”.

I place the euros with your note.
The light reflects off my face and burns my eyes.
I fondle the pay in my pocket.
The night is not a total waste.