Titanic

Layla, one legged hooker
watches Titanic again,
cuts to the scene 
when Leo shows Kate 
her Paris twin.
She figures it's better
to be drawn by a gonna die
guy in an iceberg-doomed ship
than live in Belle Glade,
dustbowl of mid Florida.
Poverty Central. HIV rampant.
Pit stop for hundreds
of black-eyed migrant workers
backs bent like wishbones
hands rough as emery boards.

Smoke from burnt cane
drifts through her open window.
A truckload of migrants roars past.
She's lucky to get two tricks
a night, wishes she could marry,
move near the sea in West Palm 
or Delray, but no man wants
a 'death till we part' one legged hooker
to ride into sweaty nights.

She hits the back button again,
sips lemonade, dreams she's floating 
out over that Titanic ocean, 
slippers tumbling
from two perfect feet.





Pris Campbell
©2010

Published Wild Goose Poetry Review summer 2012

Return to Poetry Index II
Return to Homepage