Streetwalker's Prayer

I'll drink my milk,
fill up on Granny's flapjacks,
go back to school - back to Mrs Cloaks',
struggle again with homework,
even pass math tests in flying colors,
maybe attend the prom
in that light blue taffeta gown
I saw shimmering behind
Loralie's shop-window.

Tomorrow I'll leave,
quit the streets,
go home to Granny and the cat.
Just, please God,
let me earn enough for tonight.
I need this last fix real bad.

** previously appeared online in The Black Swan Review 
(Summer 1997: The Many Faces of Prostitution)

Erasing Memory on Paper

For years I committed dossiers
of trickling time on blank pads.

Memory was a double-faced
agent I could never trust.

There I caterpillared pages
about costume parties that danced

behind Mrs. Thrush's window,
how the rose garden of Mr. Paine

died from worms that lived on roots,
the number of bushes Mr. Kasper

assaulted on his way to the park
when dragged by his Saint Bernard,

the different negligees Mrs. Foster
wore when inviting Ms. Lane in her house.

Subtly, I left out the boogieman
who entered my room at night,

how I couldn't stop wetting my bed,
the shouts of my parents downstairs

while they fought over who deserved
the burden of raising a child.