This week, I'm taking verse more seriously.
I work above a museum, downtown, and it can see all kinds of things.
Evening at the Museum
Two women, sit comfortably, legs crossed,
On a bench in the park,
Waiting to start.
The night shadow poking its head,
A stench, knowing the queue will get their fate when dark.
Scantly clad, even obscene,
Smoking, trails, rising to the street light,
Trying to get away, like so many young girls,
Childhoods stained by awkward moves,
But remembered through opened arm twirls.
Small talk, girl talk, boy talk, sex talk,
They’ll whisper, then holler,
All for the dollar,
Metered time for only the boy.
“Stay and play. I’ll blow your mind.
Whatever. I won’t decline.”
They’ll hear it again, and again, in the night,
The low guttural sounds, of his unspoken joy.
One of two women,
Comfortably, standing on a street corner,
The park bench taken,
The love there bending forward,
Hands griping her waist.
She waits for another self,
To hear that sound that lets her go.
The night is long,
Then comes desperation,
And to run, futile.
They need each other.
Comfortably, sitting on a bench in the park,
Smoking, coughing, trying to hide,
Lighting a pipe, no desperation now.
But the museum can see them.
Comfortably, sitting on a bench, in the park,
One waves her hand and runs for cars,
The other works the bars.
The bench, now not taken;
The park, alone and dark.
The museum’s eyes close.
While two women,
Finally, go to their homes.