It was her night --
The lady clad in red dallying around the corner
of an underlit alley.
Tight fitting dress;
in bondage and barely breathing.
A shady deal --
The dying piece of cigarette between her fingers
keeping her warm from the chilling wind that blew ever so often
to burst her locks that took her hours to groom.
With unknown guests;
The shattering of a soul.
Her most precious purse --
With barely nothing inside except for
maquillage, some cents, lights, gum and a locket revealing an image of child;
Whose future lay uncertain.
For it was her night --
Her flesh shall then again be compelled;
trembling, into the horrors past dusk;
Her insides churned by dawn;
And by daybreak, another cigarette;
Not with coffee --
But tears before the picture in the purse.
© 2019 Carl Eli