Poetry mode

I need to get back into poetry mode; I hope to be doing another book of children's poems this winter. But I haven't written any kind of poetry in a long time. It's hard to write when you're stone-blind drunk, despite what the movies show. So I need to practice.

This is not a children's poem, but it's something I've wanted to write ever since I realized that the woman I drive past every morning as I go to work is coming home from her night's work on the streets.




The mystery of you, walking out of the sun
Every day, as I move into it.

I think of all you have sold,
And all I have given away.

And I wouldn’t trade places.

You were beautiful in your way last night;
Now your tight shoes strain the swollen
Flesh of your feet. I can see clearly
How they hurt you. You, your skirt short and tight,
And your wig askew. Breasts big and hard,
Straining, too, the thin straps of your blouse.

As we pass each other, I look. Do you get
To keep your money? Who is it that beats you?
Do you want me to stop, and hold open the door of my car,
And say, come with me, and we’ll drive into the sun together?

You look down, and away, and the light changes, and I will drive on,
Into the day, thinking of you.

How you look; tired, disgusted, and old.
And there was a time,
When I would have traded places.