Art of Alphonse Mucha

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was not the job
she wanted —
no woman would —
on display on a French
Quarter Balcony,
cigarette, done-up-hair.
But she ate, had nice things,
rare for a girl around here.
Her, on the perch, was the
madam showing off,
she did not take clients
that way; no, she was
special, commanding more
than some passing sailor
could afford.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She wore yellow flowers
in her auburn hair,
but never when she worked,
only on the days she could
get away from the city.
They were fresh and pretty,
reminding her of what she
once was, and hoped to be
again some day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She rarely gave in to tears,
and never, ever, where
another could see, but
sometimes when alone,
and the loneliness, emptiness,
was too much to bear,
and there were no yellow
flowers for her hair.