Springs Sing
**This poem is at least three years old...I wrote it after doing a study of blues poems and poems about prostitutes by my two favorite poets Langston Hughes and Maya Angelou. The content is heavy. I'm not sure how I feel about it now but here it is for my blogging pleasure**
Photo by: Phil Roeder
She sings herself to sleep
Every night
And she's quite good
But no one knows
No one has heard
She's afraid of rejection
So she welcomes paying customers
Between her legs
No refund
No checks
The creak of the bed springs
Her forced moans
All part of the atmospherics
You get what you pay for
She feels nothing
Empty and Hollow
Like that space between her legs
Cramped compartment
Cramped apartment
Cramped life
And She's claustrophobic
Suffers from panic attacks
Lonely
Trips to the clinic
On the clock
Back to work
On her back
She watches the fan
Traces the cracks in the ceiling
To their place of origin
Nameless faces
Pass in front of her
Pass by her
Pass through her
She doesn't cry anymore
Life has turned the water in her eyes
To dust
She desires love
But she's content with lust
She sings herself to sleep
Every night
and she's quite good at it
It's almost to be expected
Because customer after customer
Her bed springs sing the blues