The Girl in the Plain Brown Wrapper

- a portrait


Dancing deftly on aluminum sheets,
Her pole bruised thighs
Hungering
For renewal, for blessed release
From his Baywatch fantasies.

Perhaps she should have studied.
Perhaps she should have cared,
But there was Joey, golden and buff.
And he was a future outside of this fluff
Of Bonaparte and Waterloo.
Of Emerson and Thoreau.

Joey was a promise
Of quick,
Of safe.
Of no more secret visits,
No more threats if she talked.

Now she grinds, struts,
Pimping her wares
For a fistful of paper.
Loathing her fate,
But caught in the green.

She adds a swish of allure,
A raunchier flash.
Customizing, super sizing,
Calculating the eyes of their desires,

Dancing for the jackals,
The bankers and the dark ones.
Parading for the losers,
The boozers, and the salesmen.

A couple more years
And the venues slide
To Frankie's All Nude - All the Time.
Where they let them touch a little
And the fights have guns.

This is her life.
The girl in the plain brown wrapper.
Paid for her flesh,
Bled of her youth,
A bad trade for Jane Austen.
If only they'd taught her Fleshpot 101.