The paper is peeling
And the ceiling
Is dirty grey.
“How long will you stay?”
He asks. “What will you pay?”
I say.
Shall I be nice
And offer him a lower price?
Its so easy to pretend
To be “a friend”
When you’ve done this for a while.
You smile
And lose yourself in drink
Or think
Of Coins
And gird your loins.
Having wrangled
I lie
Entangled
In the sheet.
“You are sweet”
I say,
Thinking of my pay.
—
Me in jeans
On the bus, with my university books.
No one looks
At an ordinary girl,
Her head in a whirl
Over forthcoming exams,
And last night’s scenes.
K Morris - Poet 