invited the red shiny lips,
the cleavage suggesting
lusciosness,
and legs that began high
and ended in tall stiletto heels.
How young was she, this child?
How old was she?
How very, very old.
As old as Methusala?
As old as paid-for-sex;
that cold transaction
which fakes the things
a man is really looking for
when he buys a woman's love
between her legs,
and she, quite passive,
lets him pierce her private heaven
and breathe into her face
and leave his smells smeared
on her skin.
I thought of this as
I walked on by;
and then the lines I'd learnt by heart:
"But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse."
The night closed round,
and left her, icy cold.
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