Naomi Long
 

Magdalene’s City of Dreams
 
 
 
 
 

She waits for the light when to step or stall or jump past the curb throw her head back and laugh hair cascading, red polish painting the edges of the street. Cars breathe up her skirt: the flash of pink blooms a stray pube, a maxi staining the weave. She says to the newsvendor a dime for the Times. He hands her the paper slides an inky digit down her palm catches his teeth on her breasts. Slimy fucker. She fingers her gold-plated cross wonders who, come dawn will hose away the mess of sex and stale butts the city leaves as night rolls by, a long black limousine puffing and pulling on a thick imported cigar casting down dreams so common around here— just pick one up make a wish.

  (c)Naomi Long 2003