Love Story

StreetScenes

She was the time’s type:
nothing special, really;
nice smile, a decent body,
the obligatory long hair,
almost pretty, but not quite.
Seventeen and on her own,
willing to trade her body
for a place to crash, to get high,
maybe a little food.
Nothing personal about it.
We laughed a few seconds together.
I provided her three night’s lodging.
She paid in full and moved on.
I can’t remember her name.
Those were the sixties.