I am the madame of this brothel.

I will whore out my visions

For the price of gullibility.

I am not being sensitive—

I am mourning my stolen youth.

The world my father left behind,

For us to squawk at any ole fool willing to pay a schilling to gawk,

Stinks of swine, burning at the stake

Though they wear the skin of elistist scum.

I can tell you the future—

White shirts, black ties, red lipstick stains—

Business casual

For transactional pleasure.

He’ll slip something in her drink

As she slips off her coat

And he plants the seed for his invasive species to infiltrate her ecosystem,

Creeks running brown

That used to be as clear as my crystal ball.

And her bloating body miles upstream,

Floating face-down.

The newspapers will call her Jane Doe

And he’ll go back to his six figure salary

And his house on a hill.

He’ll still be respectable

And we’ll always be disposable.

Everything is just as it is meant to be.