Picture this.

Times Square on a sultry
afternoon in late June...

A fiftyish Lady Gaga wannabe
brazenly stands in the middle
of the block, a cowgirl hat
crowning her teased blonde head,
a guitar strung around her neck.

A performance street artist who
never performs, she wears a
sheer blouse featuring sagging
(almost) naked ******* dangling
just south of municipal
    decency standards.

Her short but shapely legs poke out
    of the shortest of short shorts
this side of a Coney Island boardwalk.

The heat is so oppressive, she removes
her hat. Her hair is the color
    of straw and
she has faded blue eyes misty with
melancholy, burdened with too much
mascara, her sad expression framed
in a halo of smoke.

As she puffs on a Marlboro, a
tourist stops to ask if she'll
pose with him for a photo. She
looks a little wobbly. He hands
her a dollar and she asks, "That's
all?" She looks directly into his
eyes, her fire engine red lips
break into a weak smile and she
sputters, "It's one buck per ***."
He hands her another dollar.
His friend takes the picture.
The tourist thanks the "Lady"
and heads down the block
just in time to catch his wife
swap spit with the
Naked Cowboy.

Welcome to New York City.