The girls were young
And worked the
Streets
But often couldn’t
Score, they
Ended up
In my hotel
Room
3 or 4 of
Them
Sucking at the
Wine,
Hair in face,
Runs in
Stockings,
Cursing, telling
Stories…
Somehow
Those were
Peaceful
Nights
But really
They reminded me
Of long
Ago
When I was a boy
Watching my gran-
Mother’s
Canaries make
Droppings
Into their
Seed
And into their
Water
And the
Canaries were
Beautiful
And
Chattered
But
Never
Sang.