White Leather

When people speak of prostitutes and laugh,

I remember the sweltering night a woman, who

works as a prostitute, leaned out of her red

convertible to offer me a ride./

My bare legs slid without sticking over

white leather. She mentioned her pool

and a moonlight swim. Stomach churning,

at my apartment I turned to thank her,

and her mouth covered mine./

Stiff-kneed I walked past amazed neighbors out for a breath of air,

rode the elevator to 12 F, pulled a chair to the window

and sat in my sweat-glazed skin/

looking out on all the open windows behind which

others too hoped for any caress

of the city's thick and spangled dark.

(One Trick Pony, 1 Spring 1997)