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Melodies XLIX; Passing A Man Who Clutches A Bag
Marked predator, he is, who passes you
along this dark, fog-draped street; Whitechapel.
Tall hat and crimson scarf conceal all of
his face, excepts his eyes, that seem to blaze
with hellish glow as he accelerates
his pace, to get past and beyond your sight;
something in that bag he clutches---gripped tight.
something that he wants known one else to see.
The laughing adolescent whore who clings
so tightly to your arm tightens her cling,
and gasps, and suddenly begans to cry.
She has not sold herself lower than you
despite your noble title and the Queen's
distant acquaintance. Not like the West End,
foul smells assault your upturned nose: they rise
from feces, urine, semen; and spilled blood---
this from another prostitute. throat slashed.
You dare not look at her, nor dare look back . . .
nor meet that man's fierce, feral gaze again . . .
Starward
