Poem: The Prostitute

Once again from my window
Down across the street she roams
- Half bare, fancy hair, fancy cheap adornments
Obtrusive even in the dark.

A clanging disturbance from my left … I turn
At the approaching roar of a rickety truck
It slows down at her –as if- regardful, then speeds on
Coughing thick dust and smoke.
She turns her head angrily, wrinkling her nose.

Then, comes a luxurious drone …
A gleaming flash from the corner of my eyes.
Her smeared face brightens again,
Her eyes reflecting it’s lamps like a cat’s,
Thick painted lips pouted, hips further angled,
her hands wave at this tantalizer.
But it speeds past without taking notice or stopping.
Helplessly, she resumes her pose;
Hopelessly, some other will stop.

At the window I can’t but wonder
How the gem of Eden and pride of Adam
Has so degenerated
From a position of graceful dignity
To the level of a street doll
At the mercy of a man’s fancy.

© 2001, Tee Akindele