SOCIAL LADDER
A line of prostitutes in front of houses
we once loved, faces ravaged
by neon lights, stucco, make up.
A pregnant woman leans on the wall
a bit higher, open holes made by projectiles,
her silent belly a black bullet that
prepares the revenge we don’t suspect.
Two men stop, they say she’s good in bed
count their money which isn’t enough
they hold their erected penises in their pockets
rotten onion, dirty meats, eggs gone bad
boggy smell of the market, army police,
id papers. One told me that prostitutes go
around in limousines in Syntagma Square.
Libros Libertad 