The chaffed red thighs of the streetwalker And darting yellowed eyes of the nervous talker Do not meet in this celibate exchange This strange therapy in a musty room No thrusting hips or sweaty faces loom Niether dips down or drips above the other With weight of body or intent that smothers No sound of slapping skin She punches in the clock Sits, looks, listens He licks his chewed lips And in the light they glisten