Hookers and dimes.
Hookers
and dimes.
Both
are found in the cheap seats
or
struggling in sidewalk cracks
to
claim some virgin real estate
to
beat the cops, the pimps, and the heat.
Both
are found in gutters and drains,
metal
poetry slams with extemporaneous rhymes,
hanging
out in sheets of city rain
or
cozied up to the neon gas of night
for
the sake of camouflage,
hiding
in plain sight their vocations
to
be hookers and dimes,
hookers
and dimes.
The
best laid plans of men and mice
break
the dollar into silver shards of Roosevelt
that
on any given night catch the moon,
break
the leg bone that hits the pavement running,
streetwalkers
stamping for hustle and glory.
The
oldest profession lies above the fold:
“Rahab
caught in Gotham subway story.”
Painted
lips and powdered cheeks
hover
like balloons above an angled hip
on
which to hang a john or snatch a glance.
Everything
is glitter and strobe,
sequins
of red satin gambled for a ten-cent chance.
Perhaps
collect these forsaken treasures
and
bury them in a potter’s field
without
so much as a marking stone.
It
is the best laid plan of men and mice
to
raid the dive bar, round up the herd,
then
purchase the field for a silver dime—
purchase
the lost and forbidden lot.
Go
all in for the pearl of great price.
In
God we trust.
In
God we trust.
~William Hammett
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