Agatha
12 June 2018
WARDLEY BARRY
She hangs around the sidewalk
right under the streetlight
on Second 22nd Street
where she’s seeable
and sellable.
She wears a skirt
too short for her legs,
and a top
to squeeze out her breasts;
her Daddy recommended it.
She tucks her bum out
and thumbs passing SUVs;
used to be Mummy’s trick.
A CRV honks, slows down
and reverses;
a ride for a ride,
the fare is fair.
She’s sixteen,
barely out of kids-school,
but this is her seventeenth.
He’s sixty
with a horde of grandkids
and she’s his umpteenth.
They say love is blind.
Yea, blinded by want
and toyed by wealth.
She’s useful,
but like the air in his nostrils,
useless when used.
She picks up what’s left
of her worth
and leaves with what’s left
of his wealth.
She used to hang around the sidewalk
right under the streetlight.
on Second 22nd Street.
She died at sixteen
and no one noticed.
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