The sky is thundering,
midnight splits with lightning\u2019s crack.
I stand beneath a lonely streetlamp,
its pale glow spilling over me.
As always\u2014
this is my place,
this is my profession.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stand beneath the streetlamp,
as always\u2014
this is my place,
this is my profession.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The night air bites with cold,
its teeth sharp against my skin.
Sometimes, for a moment,
I feel a borrowed warmth\u2014
yet it is not the warmth I seek,
not the warmth I desire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stand beneath the streetlamp,
as always\u2014
this is my place,
this is my profession.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n