FOOL THAT I AM

there are prostitutes outside my window
who sell their wares in single denominations
praying between slightly-bent knees,
pants down around ankles in front seats
of vehicles with tinted windows

these exchanges happen frequently
enough that i don't have to turn on
the television. instead, like pearl
on 227, i watch outside my window
or from my backporch these dealings
that go down while they go down

i watch the women light glass pipes
while squatting low so as to not be
seen from the streets, but i am above
their heads; watching their minds soar
before making the score of a good john
good in that he pays exactly what they
ask

but what do you ask a prostitute on
her off-time? do you ask how tricks
are in all seriousness? do you ask
if today's economy has impacted their
going prices? do eight hours work
for you and your family?

& just how do you file this on your
taxes?

i ask nothing, just go by each day &
night speaking while moving. sometimes
i give them a cigarette as i consistently
decline their invitations for some "good head"

when i look into their eyes, i see someone
else in them, but that usually becomes
too much as they have to keep moving
if they are to sell their wares for any
denomination.

is it a proud moment in history to commend
these women for working without the famed
upper management: pimps?

"i'm not a whore, you see! i work for me & me only!"

is what she said to me, as if i'd asked, but in
my eyes she saw the question i couldn't.

"now, young man, give me a square so i can get
it crackin' on this avenue!"

i oblige

keep moving to my home
so that i can see the show
from my window.