She sits on a box
On a seedy side street
Beneath illegible graffiti.
Same spot every day.
Waiting, waiting
(as if life was for ever)
Like a drugged buddha on a trip to oblivion.
But she needs to be noticed,
Hence the facade
Of fake tan and fake leather
Designed to startle
Designed to stop the needy in their track.
But the mask is thin
The delusion fleeting
This 'she'
Is just a pronoun to passers- by.
For reasons no one knows
She must sit here.
No one cares.
Her name is nothing.
She's just a reflection
Of a world
That can sell life
So cheap.
So very cheap.
-
Author:
Keith (
Offline) - Published: January 12th, 2022 04:39
- Comment from author about the poem: I lived in Malasaña when I first moved to Madrid in 2017. It's a vibrant and bohemian barrio. Near my flay there were a number of prostitutes. They always made me feel sad, they looked so worn down by life and they most of them were not young at all. I used to sit in a bar close by and would see the same lady sitting in a side street on a piece of cardboard on a windowsill, just staring into space and waiting for a man to come along.
- Category: Sociopolitical
- Views: 44
Offline)
Comments2
A sad state indeed.
A good writing ) that’s very sad .. that some people feel they have to live that way ((
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