Let Me Take You By The Hand
by Joshua Seigal
A breakthrough failed me as I walked up Oxford Street
and was accosted by some kind of hooker.
A ladyboy I think – you hear of them but are never sure
when you see them. She (or ‘it’, I should say) had a
husky voice, and called me ‘fucking ugly’ when I spurned
her rancid come-ons.
It failed me too as I noticed the throbbing vein
in between those huge fake tits,
and as I arched my legs forward humming to myself
The Smiths, and saw
a blind dreadlocked woman playing a fife,
tunelessly beckoning chance.
It failed me as I stopped and searched, and as
my stomach leapt into my mouth when a gold-toothed man
approached. I held onto my phone,
but he offered me a smoke.
And on past three girls at the bus stop, ugly
as the day they were born, hiding
under thick layers of make-up.
The breakthrough failed me past the line against the wall
as I hated the culture and walked alone.
It failed me as I pushed my way through
the red sea of broken veins and sniffed glue,
and it failed me as I walked down Charlotte Street
and wished I had Charlotte in my arms.
So I climbed the stairs and sat down,
and tried to wring the towel dry.