The Prostitute




His smile is warm, his lips sincere,
His kiss upon her cheek
Brings memories of yesteryear,
Before her limbs grew weak.

In those good times, she was able,
Now she sees him to the door
In her wheelchair, by the table
On their polished hallway floor.

His purpose is not hidden
From her sharp, perceptive mind.
Her thoughts, by reason, bidden
Are the understanding kind.

Their love is deep and timeless
Yet she knows his carnal plight;
And prays for God�s forgiveness 
When his sin is done this night.

On flagstones cold and dim-lit,
As his footsteps gather pace;
Gut churning, like a gimlet
Comes the lure of scent and lace.

He knows the risk he�s taking,
And perchance he�ll burn in hell.
Now his trembling hand is shaking
But his finger finds the bell.

Her smile is feigned and formal
And her bosom full and wide.
Her air is calm and normal,
And she beckons him inside.

He hangs his coat upon the hook,
His trousers on the chair.
She slips her gown, that he may look
Upon her body bare.

Her breasts are firm and striking
And her shapely thighs are good.
Between them, to his liking
Rests her badge of womanhood.

She comes to him with open arms
His blood begins to race.
He fondles her seductive charms,
And tender fingers trace . . .

They lay down gently, passion burns,
And as she takes him there,
He shuts his eyes, as time returns . . .
And gone, her wheelchair.

And thus, his newly-wedded bliss
Aboard that ocean liner
Is re-enacted here in this
Warm surrogate vagina.

He calls her name with passion
At the moment of his peak.
Then she answers in like fashion;
Poignant words which leave him weak.

They lay an hour, he tells her much,
Then reaches for his purse.
She stalls his hand with gentle touch,
Her manner like a nurse.

As home-help she had often
Pushed that wheelchair to the store.
And honeyed eyes would soften;
Lonely ladies both, that�s sure.

Now she will not take his money
For her heart is moved indeed.
And she knows a mere �bye, honey�
Cannot gratify his need.

She closed the door, he looked around,
And paused as he reflected;
As kind a heart as e�er he�d found
Beat where he least expected.

Her sins may be as scarlet,
Still yet chances by and by
The teardrop of a harlot . . .
From a seldom moistened eye.

Top          Passion          Home

Copyright �2000 by Rod Walford. All rights reserved.
Rod�s biography page

Music on this page � Esiu � �Bruce DeBoer