Shotwell Street

Shotwell Street

You can call her whatever you like — 
Prostitute, hooker, streetwalker, woman
Of the night. Fifty-five, maybe sixty.
To say she must have been beautiful once
Seems to imply that she isn’t now,
Which wouldn’t be true and this poem
Aspires to be true. She’s Hispanic.
Maybe a little too much of her to fit
Into a dress that tight. I worry for her
Ankles in those heels. Her hair is dyed
Blonde, like the hair of old women I saw 
Sitting in doorways in Naples, worrying 
Their sons were straying from the faith.
As we finally pass, she doesn’t so much 
As glance at me — I’m not her type. 
Her type are men I saw 
Standing on the corner of Garfield Square 
This morning, waiting to be picked up 
And taken to some contracting job, probably
Framing out a house for a billionaire. 
Paid in cash at the end of the day,
They have to find their own way home.
She waits for them on Shotwell Street.
Her type are men who are afraid
But will never admit it, men who say
They’re voting for Trump because the guy
Doesn’t give a fuck, men who, after
Leaving her place, go stand on the other
Side of the square from where
I saw them this morning
To drink Modelo and throw die.
She suffers these men to come unto her
Because she knows that she reminds them
Of their mothers. Forgetting themselves, 
They often kiss her furiously,
As if they’re not paying for that too,
And from time to time a name
Will be whispered in her ear, whereupon 
She knows that she’s no longer whatever 
You called her —
She’s Esmeralda, Gabriella, Isabella.