The Prostitute In The Making Poem by Elaine Oxamendi Vicet

Tyres screech
as the sliver grey car
engage,
ground to a halt
reverse to view
approve; as if in awe
pause and watch
as red beams of light dance and shimmer
on steaming hot black asphalt roads.

It is not her fault,
that she had tyres screech and stop.
She was wearing red hot, short, short, shorts.
It was a Spring hot Summer day.

It is not her fault
the light cotton blouse
dance and responded to the breeze
that blew, puff and fluff.

It is not her fault.
It was a Spring hot Summer day.

Hungry eyes look
As hand moves to shade from the glare of those
red hot beams that emanate around
on steaming hot black asphalt streets.

It is not her fault
that they gawked and stared
as round mounds filled and fashioned
imprints on red hot short, short, shorts.

It is not her fault
that the gentle breeze dance
between those hand sized cups
that conspire thoughts that
one could sip, savour and sup.

Curious eyes with longing stares follow her
As anticipating lips part and ask
A raspy voice breaks “Ëxcuse me please, a moment of your time.”

Could they be lost?
Could they have missed their spot, she thought?
Red hot short, short, shorts stopped.

Whispering as he leans his head out he says,
“I’ll give you $500.00; No, $1000.00, if come in my ride,
I’ll give you $2,000.00 if you share my ride.”

It was Hot Spring Summer Day on steaming black asphalt streets.

It is not her fault that they stopped.
It is not her fault the wind danced and provoked that way.
It is not her fault!
She pondered on what she might say.

It is not her fault that there is a global recession.
It is not her fault that jobs were lost.
It is not her fault that the world seems to have astray.
It is not her fault many have fallen to moral decay.

It is simply not her fault!


Thursday March 5 2009
10: 00am