Lilly

Rhonda Schmidt, Southern Methodist University

It’s Tuesday and Lilly’s here again,

taking a break from turning tricks outside

the one-hour motel,

as the blistering summer heat turns

the asphalt into a mirage.

“I’m just an old crack-head,” she says,

stretching her legs under the metal desk between us,

straightening the long black wig on her head,

as perspiration drips slowly down her face,

forcing a smile over her burned lip.

I gaze at her over my computer.

Bruises cover her arms, her white go-go boots are almost brown.

I write on my computer words like

“homeless, drug abuse, bipolar.”

And she tells me a joke that makes us both smile,

thanking me, for no reason at all.

And I will write her a prescription that most likely

won't help.

And my neighbor will tell me when I get home,

that her sprinkler system isn't working and the landscape

people don't answer their phone,

And it's too hot outside to do anything.