Stories of the ragged,
portraits of the chic,
hard guys, whose youth
was boiled off their faces
by the street.
The girls and women,
who present themselves
as meat.
One who i'll name Jasmine
-for convenience sake
sports a micro miniskirt
and high-heeled silver sandals.
Just above her slender ankle,
a tracking device is locked.
Who is at the other end of that?
police or immigration?
She doesn't try to hide
her electronic leash
from the public eye,
her confidence, supreme.
Jasmine checks her lipstick
with the camera of her phone
waiting for the walk signal to change,
ignores the lewd
suggestions from the hard guy
perched on the empty fountain
drinking from a bottle
scarcely hidden
by a fast food paper bag.
She struts across the street,
off to some appointment
up the hill, where the noon shift
at the strip clubs will soon begin.
The hard guy takes a final swig
and drops his bottle on the sidewalk
bends down to see what he can see
up Jasmine's skirt for free.
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