Prostitute On The Corner

Sad-hearted in the city
But I no longer drink whiskey in the afternoon;
I live through the heartbreak,
A sympathetic fool that smiles
On the rainy streets of predictable failure.

Ah, my dreams are as tattered
As my lonely clothes
Missing buttons and perceptible style
But I have a suitcase at the door
Packed with Mexico City Blues
And You Can’t Go Home Again
In case anyone should load me upon a train
In a season of departure.

I rarely cry but I’m always
On the verge of tears,
I’ve been releasing bird-like prayers
For her wellbeing down along these lonesome years
To fly to heaven on her behalf.

A prostitute on the corner asked me
Why don’t you just tell her how you feel?
She just might change her mind.

poem by Uriah Hamilton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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