We could see your ass your actual ass
Solid and purple, cold and lumpy
shuffle by bare legged ending in
flat wool lined boots, dirty
with the right sole worn down
Pretty woman you are not
Night walker turned 3pm stalker
desperate flesh seeks desperate flesh
Into the organic grocery store you go alien
Our eyes stretch and gasp and giggle
into hot chocolates on a Saturday afternoon
You fuck your tea onto the path
Pregnant ladies, yoga mats and middle class chats
Don’t even see you
Where to look as you light your fag with a sulphur match
You’re wrecked, hardened saddened unrecognisable
And we take a snap to send to our mates
The horror, the farce oh the juxtaposition
Then you notice your riding skirt’s riding you
You pull it down as you cross the road
dragging yourself to your spot in
Domestic inner city sub urban in the gray of May
Your skirt shouts from the pavement
He pulls over, old and ugly in a shit old van
The deal is made, is it silent, do you comment on the weather,
his wife, do you say thanks?
Is it cold or casual, in a field or car park
is an addiction a job?
We witness, dismiss and are left with thought
wondering what it is you must think.
Then we look at each
other the judge and the juror
and slug on our drinks as you disappear.