Friday, December 14, 2018

Her Name Is... by Helen Doogan

Dirty yellow light spills from the streetlamp
Falling with a harsh and biting glow
Cascading down upon a cowered head
Like an oft abused and tarnished halo

The smell of rancid waste that rises from the gutter
Is sweetened by the fetid humanity that ghosts by
Outside the circle of light, shadows pool like blood
And a sharp wind bends distant screams into a lovers sigh

The endless stream of faceless bodies drifts by
With rough silken voices and busy hands, all named John
There is no reason to maintain a useless file of names
Of eyeless souls that have long been spent and gone

She sweats upon cracked leather seats for the ride
Heading for her cockroach infested slice of hell
At least it’s warm there and the other tenants don’t care
Where everybody sees with dead eyes and no one tells

She never looks back as she walks out the door
There are no memories there she needs to believe
For the cold hard cash that is tucked away in her boot
Her name is…
“Whatever you want it to be, baby”

About Helen Doogan: 

I am an Australian based writer whose favourite food group is Wine!
My work can be read at Hello Poetry.

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