Cat In the Cathouse
The streets are shadowy and solemn,
shook only by the drunken alley cries
of men in dance and celebration
of a Saturday night spent well
at Madame’s.
I sink into the fire escape,
as I always do after dinner
to gaze at my love
through her trade window.
Within the confines
of pink frilled curtains,
Mary prepares for her evening.
I watch as her slender, delicate fingers
glide the fishnets upwards
toward her starry-sky salvation.
The midnight black garter
is done in a bow
for playful decoration.
With mirror’s direction,
the corset is laced
to suppress the night’s breath
and contour her body
to the evening’s demands.
Mary pinches her cheeks
and crosses her legs in waiting.
The men take their turns,
knocking gently before they enter
and striding confidently as they exit.
They gather among the cobble
to sing and praise Mary’s father
for raising her so easy.
To the night’s gentlemen,
Mary blows a kiss from her windowsill.
It is only after the gentlemen
have sauntered home
to wives and children,
does Mary lap up the night’s treasures.
She paws for her concealed
leather-bound notebook
and proceeds to write her stories.
She professes
the secrets of these powerful men,
the scandals of this city,
the crime and corruption.
I sit on the fire escape
and gaze amidst nature’s harmony,
as Mary unravels the velvet seams to their thrones
and melts the iron in their fists.
Mary’s light burns until dawn.
Sometimes she’ll look up at me
with yellow slits in her eyes,
and she’ll yawn over words,
as she makes love
to the skeletons in their closets.
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