A two-penny whore sits on the docks,
skimming her slippers over the sea.
The gypsies and harkers, none mark her,
a girl watching waves spit pearls at the bay.
On her lips is a sailor’s kiss, still sweet,
like dew on the white morning sails.
A man, she says, once left her for dead,
right here, for all and the fish to behold.
It was the closest she had ever been to love,
the sting of salt air on that open wound.
And now all her fantasies are not her own,
every one of them stolen like pieces of gold.
Still, the ocean, hushing before her, speaks.
Its stories mean less than nothing to her.
© Deanna Scutt, 2017