The sky is thundering,
midnight splits with lightning’s crack.
I stand beneath a lonely streetlamp,
its pale glow spilling over me.
As always—
this is my place,
this is my profession.
A stranger comes, his eyes weighing me.
He asks the price,
I answer plain.
He scoffs, says it is too high,
and bargains as if my body were cloth in a market stall.
I stand beneath the streetlamp,
as always—
this is my place,
this is my profession.
The night air bites with cold,
its teeth sharp against my skin.
Sometimes, for a moment,
I feel a borrowed warmth—
yet it is not the warmth I seek,
not the warmth I desire.
I stand beneath the streetlamp,
as always—
this is my place,
this is my profession.
