Look not upon me aghast, or with pity-laced scorn
I am like you flesh and blood, of woman born
A cherished daughter, sister, niece, aunt, mother
Living a life of abasement, society’s throw-away; other
Trapped in an ugly, cruel, iron vise; hardly comfy, gentle or kind
Risking life and limb, my life of vice, in an endless bind
Walking the city’s highways, byways and mean streets
Clearly, never mistaken for a no-nonsense, uniformed cop on the beat
Scantily clad, my tired, wracked mind and body, bared
It’s the name of the game; no better way to ply, barter, sell my wares
Like you, I have a best-loved colour – it’s buttercup yellow
Although, it matters not, to paying johns, all strange-bedfellows
Like you, I have a fav, special meal – it’s spicy pot roast
But, I make do a lot; with a coke and canned beans, on mouldy toast
I used to be religious, you could say I still am, giving to charity when I can
Worn around my neck, since childhood catechism – a chain and cross
For comfort and protection; happily, in nowise a horrid albatross
I even pray, every so often, for society to help equip me, for a better day
Looking on me no less fondly, than a cat or dog far from home; gone astray
I am like you; we breathe air from the same abiding, eternal source
I am worthy of regard; albeit, my shadowy ways, and tricky life-course.

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© 2022 by Irene Fowler