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Mar 2010
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
Written by
Charles Berlin
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