The Oldest Profession

I never knew her name.

A child among braying whores laughing loudly at the bar.

I remember she always wore

A big red rose in her hair.

I heard many different stories on how

She came to entertain

Or at least make the brothel the least bit more legitimate.

However it happened - it happened

And I made my routine

With a little leftover after payday

To sit in the corner and listen to her play.

A blue painted violin became one

With her shoulder over a red, rustling silk dress.

It was blurry as empty glasses crowded

My table and the lingering decision to fall into her arms,

Who was currently wrapping her fingers in the 

Dock worker’s thick hair.

Still she stood in the dim light,

Playing badly the same song over and over.

Her eyes flickering, even though they were shut -

I danced in my seat, almost over the side.

Figures and colors of others drinking

And carousing shifted in front of her.

Dreams from last night haunted me -

It got hot as I decided that I would take her

With the sad money left crumpled in sweat

In my pocket. 

As I found that comfort I thought of her,

The music and a release I allowed myself

Before drunkenly staggering two blocks down

And passing out on my bedroom floor.