By Gene Novogrodsky

The streetwalker, just out of jail,
Is puffy; starch and no drugs.

She leans against the cathedral’s fence,
And yells at three bricklayers.

They’re under a tree,
Replacing bricks between the street and
Cathedral entrance.

They see her dyed hair – reddish yellow -
And her thin legs.

They don’t know about her teacher and nurse daughters,
Her grandchildren – their school honors, prizes.

She tells the men she’ll come back
In the late afternoon, when they’re off.

She pauses in the sun.
They pause in the shade.