Maggie's in Toronto

I pull aside the blind to find my street covered with snow,
ice bobbing against the break waters of Lake Ontario;
 I've seen winter come to pass more often than I care to remember.
"This is my twenty-second," I say, talking to your member,
then hiding it away like the snow hides the streets below: covering the
shameful secrets of a modern metropolis, just large enough to
be forgotten in.

We shudder together, our faces wreathed in the ethereal smoke
of a cigarette butt, lost in the collective ash of a Mickey Mouse
ashtray (a present from Disneyland); out of place it's become a joke,
the relic of another time, another place, another me; not the louse
-ridden whore I've become. We switch positions, you're on top, that's
the way it should be – I think – waiting for you to come inside of me,
wondering what purifying I'll need when we're done.

A grunt, one last ripple of tearing emotion, complicated by the dance
of a chemical reaction, so-called 'pleasure', then it's over. We're done.
I light a smoke while you start to dress, muttering about the price of sex.
"A rates a rate, I gotta eat too," I say to you, only to have a red and purple
thrown in my face.  "You whores are getting too expensive, this is costing
me an arm and a leg," he snarls and leaves through the front door.
"Try fucking your wife for sixty bucks, you prick."