In the night's velvet heat, he sits and drinks on the step
And watches the bored whores on the street.
As he swallows his beer in knots he drives his eyes on their
Bodies’ chicanes and avoids the straights of their gaze.
Their skirts cling like Catholic guilt.
Their souls glow in each breath in and
Float up in ribbons of smoke.
As a lonely car approaches, one girl turns and
Grinds her butt beneath a stiletto sole;
The knife turn twist of her leg;
She fulcrums on her hips and rolls her rump,
The drawbridge of her chest lowers to the car door.
Using her private feline voice, pawing at the
Prospect like she’s persuading for milk.
Feline. He smiles. An apt word for the curves of their assets.
He drains his beer and crushes the can with a sharp crump.
The whores lift their heads like sleepy cats as he turns inside
To telephone his mum.