She stands outside the shop
Contra Natura,
On Rua Dos Correeiros.
I just happen to see while watching the Brazil match,
The fans in yellow rushing to the square...Park do Comerico

Leaning against the green tiled facade,
Cigarette in her left hand.
Dressed in faded grey jeans,
Black jumper, ***** sneakers,
She is beautiful.

The shop display holds a blindfolded manikin,
Dog collar and lead.
See through plastic underpants,
He looks happy.

She draws on her gauloises
Looks to her left.
And with a look of distain,
Dismisses that reality.

In her annual review,
Her boss Mr Costa has demanded,
That she sells more whips,
Beautifully she looks at him with same dismissal.



In her garret on Rua Da Madalena,
She reads Fernando Pessoa.
Cigarette in the left hand,
A glass of Douro red to her right,
Leg draped over a worn armchair.

This is her real life,
A world devoid of the Slavery of work.
Life and Slavery,
Two ships passing unknown,
Unrecognised,uncommunicative.

Her soul is an orchestra,
I can't decern the instruments.
Harps, piano, drums don't know,
I can only see the music.