South Side Whore (Birmingham)

Her skin
is one of the more interesting things about her.
It’s damaged dark
with an artificial aurora.
It looks as if it were the leather
of an old Buick seat
of some careless previous owner,
misused and never cleaned.
Aggressive leather face
with cruel cigarette burns.
Her teeth are so white
against the contrast of skin.
Her teeth
are like old fossil bones
with indentations
variously placed by nature,
calcium spots
and the trust of southern tap water.
She speaks softly,
winking of innuendo,
“Is there anything I can do for money?”
I pause
in thought
and slight shock. “Uhhh….,”
I stumble on anything
close to words.
I choke on my tongue.
She stretches her leathery neck out
looking around the neighborhood.
She pans the neighborhood
like a wild dog
searching for its next meal.
For now I’ll satisfy her hunger.
Her stretched long neck
faintly reads “Carlos.”
“No,” I say to the cool debutant
of Southside.
She fires up a cigarette.
“C’mon, I know you live here,” she says,
as she points to my apartment
directly behind me.
My apartment,
the little piece of paradise
surrounded
by the southern sewer
city scum,
is untouched
by whores and crack.
I had really planned on keeping it
that way, at least
for the time being.
“What would Carlos think about this?” I ask.
She pauses in mid drag and
spits out the smoke
like cancer.
She puts her hand over her neck
and lightly tugs at the skin.
Somehow
I feel
Carlos would not approve.
“Okay,” I say.
“Follow me.”