Joanne John

On Wellington Street

Maybe if I stomped on your foot with my stiletto heel

you’d get the point.

That the lycra skirt

And my teased up hair,

the red shiny lips

and lack of underwear,

are not about you.

In another life

I walked by men like you.

Smiled nervously as you roved your eyes.

Made Cinderella wishes

that your recognition

would lead to more

than frenzied catcalls.

Now for 100 bucks

I could moan real good

tell you I love it

pretend that I’m her

forget that I’m me

make it about you.

For 200, I could graze your back

with my stiletto heels.

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