Out my bedroom window I see a brick wall. Symbolic of the walls I keep hitting? I am trapped by who I am. I said I didn't want to depend on any man. But am I willing to do ANY type of work? I see why they sell their bodies.
I like St. Kilda but my life conditions are deplorable.
I walk the streets alone
Prostitutes solicit day and night
The red light district
Some in sequins
Others in shorts and runners
With their asses hanging out
High heels, heavy makeup
Many say they're trash
They are the lonely, the abused, the poor
Need to feed their children
The men-short, fat, scruffy or
Tall, professional with suitcase
Wait on the curbside in their cars
Old Koori man, no teeth left
Drunkenly stumbles into me
Is this all there is?
I'm just like them
With the fascade
Of formal education
The sad, the lonely, the angry
I want to know them
I feel their pain
I hold back the tears, barely,
As I eat my dinner
Alone on Acland
Authors Note: Acland St. is a major thoroughfare in St. Kilda, Australia where I first experienced homelessness/lack of a fixed address.
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