Class

By Millicent Howard

Begging men wait for nothing

Sounds of whirring carriages are their conversation, 

Copper men in cups, their companions.

Six ‘o clock is painted by the denim skies,

What waits for me is all the same.

I don’t dare look up from my feet

And meet the faces of nameless men

No place, only pleading shame.

Midnight is dripping from the tap,

The fleas on the street have found a scalp

To leech on for the night,

And the sounds out the window are dwindling,

The tap speaks, it’s time to rest.

Pulsing hands tell me to wait,

It’s the only fault of the working man.

In this abode I shine porcelain 

Vampires in the street seek my blood

nutritious; youthful and passionate. 

Those vermins I have to avoid,

Walking to the trolley, face down, face down

Eight ‘o clock

The morning waits, they seek

My head on a stake

The pedestal lowered 

Transformed into them.

Working is my protection.

The working man,

Is the highest rank, above the streets

Above all. 

How can you betray me like this,

With every step, every clank,

A musk in every step,

What do you serve, dracula?

Shame, shame, shame on you.

I do not fear you. 

I do not fear the sickness you cause

Take to your belligerent world,

My seconds, thirds, fourth.

You have failed to prove you’re worth more.

I can only think, and write, about what you are

What you’ve done, little, no good —

Obsessed, addicted, it’s my duty to share

And these thoughts reflected, I do not care.

Could any man define your shape,

Your hunger, your scent, your stain?

I will not stoop to understand— It is beneath me.  Still, I dream of your fingers in my throat, 

Of your coat brushing mine.

I record you only to destroy you. 

I am above. 

(I am above?)