The Streetsweeper

Caged, enraged,
A life reduced
A lap dancer
In some sleazy club
Then the war started
And the river parted
Incredible, indelible,
Pink flesh glistening
Under hot lights

By day she is
The street sweeper
Barely there
Only half alive
We pass her by
She emerges from s family
Of filthy scrubbers
Derided and despised

But in the dark
At night so bright
With stars. A hidden
Inner self emerges
Magical and ethereal
She is cut and shaped,
From the same cloth
As her foremothers
Embracing duality

An inner twin
Concealed by day
This is the way
She has learnt to survive
A wraith in ragged overalls
Unnoticed by passers by
As she waits for the end
Of these friendless, endless
Days of decay

But in the dark
She is not the same
She dances on the tabletop
Ageing, affluent city bankers
Thrust money at her
Forgetting for a moment
Their wives, their children
The dullness of their lives
Chanelled into something they despise

And for her, this is survival
But, for them, it all remains
Just a game

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