Image for the poem sex of atonable minutes

sex of atonable minutes

she calls herself Mary, probably not her real name. you’d
never confuse her with the mother of God; she’s a prostitute,
by reason of some personal tragedy. it’s always a tragedy
that pushes a dame into that racket.

a working girl like her is an outlaw who carries no
weapon except her ability to pull a man’s trigger quick
& get on to the next liaison. she stuffs her heart in her
bag along with lipstick & condoms.

she occupies the same stool at the corner of the bar,
she’s there regular, day or night. the men who gather
at that saloon like to joke that she’s the perfect woman
(which translates to whore in this case), she’s easy to find
when you want her.

[funny thing about women & whores, now that I think
about it: a lot of men figure there’s no difference.]

when you became a trusted client, she’d take you to her
place rather than the shabby hotel by the L-tracks. she
let me crash there a couple times after our session, when
I was too beat or drunk to make it home, while she went
out to keep an appointment or just listen to another lonely
man’s sad story.

sometimes we’d ask her if she’d ever been in love.
‘of course,’ she would answer, & she was dead serious.
‘I make a career out of being in love.’

there’s a certain kinship among drifters like me & a lady of
the sullen night; tramps bound for a better place, on a bus
that never arrives. & the lonely ritual of drinking will make a
man think hard on a woman like her,

but you don’t fall in love with a whore…

(Art: Eric Traore)

Written by JohnFeddeler
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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