the whore on Merrimack Street. (v2)

her ass was obscenely round
and her waist almost unnaturally pinched
like an advertisement for cheap sin
but it wasn't her sordid body that I remember most
or the cruelness of her cackle

the black-haired bitch
with the latin trill and brown mustard eyes
told me right away,
"I don't have a soul."

I nodded three times, tilted
my head to the left
so my hair would catch the street light
and took a long drag.

"Sure thing, toots,"
with a thin billowing smile
and a cloud of almost-laughter
from my nose.

"Sure thing," I hissed my sigh
along side hers and we both looked
everywhere else but at eachother
until now was then
and it was time to move on.

later down in the bar
she was sitting on a fat chinese guy
and doing a shot of golden nectar
in hopes of drunken immortality
or free dope after a ten-second blow

I eyebrowed at her,
she winked and feigned stranger-ness.

the neon light from the dirty window
haloed her ebony tresses in the mirror
behind the scotch, gin and vodka
next to the calendar with tomorrow circled.

perhaps she doesn't hurt
anymore.