It’s his first time with a hooker.
Luckily, she makes the arrangement easy for him,
fills in his stutter’s gaps.
And there is none of this
quickie-behind-the-Mexican-café business.
She takes him back to her apartment.
He gets to see where his money’s going.
It’s a cozy place.
Not seedy at all.
Somewhere a real person might live.
On a dresser is a photograph
of what must be her family.
As she undresses,
he tries to figure out
which of the three little girls
grew up to be the woman in the room with him.
“If that bothers you,” I can turn it around,
she says.
For a moment, it is her life
he so wants to see turned around.
But then he begins to unbutton his shirt.
After all, he is paying for this.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in The Tau, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Examined Life Journal and Midwest Quarterly.
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