Brothel

by Mark Rubin

No name or visible address, no red light
to indicate taxi referrals, walk-ins welcome.
The sun may do shift work in New Orleans

but here in Tijuana the sun does not
work overtime for a better view
of four chairs and four bored women,

used and carbohydrate thick or anorexic,
a row of undeterred survivors.
They smoke and chew gum. And wait.

One whose turn is up can’t wait
to crook her arm in mine, the two of us,
strolling on our honeymoon.

Soiled air, tissues, a mattress on the floor.
I am the worm in her mezcal.
I am her dime bag of weed.

I am her jack-in-the-box.
I am her daughter’s new shoes.
I am her naked rooster soon

counting five dollars more to the taxi pimp
who saunters in wagging a prophylactic
and lackluster grin. I have no history.

Worse, my trustworthy who to date
has not faltered, fails to rise and shine,
to cock-a-doodle-doo.

Which is to say, I re-organized myself
in reverse into clothes, and walked out
onto the emptiest street in the universe.