Between 10th and 13th Streets
from Third Avenue through Alphabet City
each corner was staked
claimed with the blood, urine and broken jewelry of the female barkers
fleshy menageries of the drugged and enslaved.
Some with the bud of youthful beauty
new to the trade
others hardened and misshapen
using layers of dollar store makeup and bangles to hide the bruises
all smoking cigarettes
glossy eyed expressions displaying
boredom, fear, anticipation, hope and hopelessness
in equal measure
while admonished by my mother
to give them wide berth
I would go out of my way to say hello to them all
so they knew they were seen.
Each morning the path to school
was marked with cracked corners and a cornucopia of beads
evidence of the evening's violence
plastic, crystal, brass, glass and clay
I would ceremoniously collect them
a street urchin's treasure
wondering if I'd ever see the wearer again
most often not
hardened lost souls
we never heard cries for help
buried beneath the din of drunken revelers
Hell's Angels and sirens.
My bead box
now in the back of my closet
a forgotten homage
to the disposable
keeps safely
the ghosts of these now gentrified streets
where escorts now carry cell phones and can afford to live in
"market rate" apartments.
