Her cheap crucifix,

Is turning to rust,

The saint and the sinner,

Don’t know who to trust.


Under the red light,

A price is agreed,

By he who is wanting,

And she who’s in need.


Her address you can find,

By charting the stars,

Reading the postcards,

Asking in bars.


Perpetual loser,

Always second best,

She thinks like a lost soul,

Not knowing she’s blessed.


The city calls out,

When day turns to night,

Street lights are the sirens,

Moths round a light.


Taking their chances,

Riding their luck,

Some end up in gutters,

Some make a fast buck.


Some offer salvation,

They make cups of tea,

Brass bands and war cries,

They gift unto thee.


The helpless find ‘kindness,’

The rich no reward,

There’s no place in their heaven,

If you haven’t a sword.


The sun slowly rises,

New shadows are born,

The ladies of night now,

Suffer the scorn,


Of those of the daylight,

Who prefer not to see,

This cheap scented landscape,

Where no one is free.


12 thoughts on “UNDER THE RED LIGHT

    1. I had to get the Salvation Army in there somewhere as they knocked upon my front door collecting as I was writing. Oddly for me and my general stance on ‘door knockers’ I do have time for them – they don’t seem to be an ‘in your face’ charity and always get my support.

  1. I grew up in The Hague, the Netherlands, so for obvious reasons I spent a lot of time in Amsterdam. If feel this piece ought to be printed on a billboard or wall in its red light district…it would definitely improve that neighborhood.

    1. It’s easy to score cheap points making jokes about the oldest profession yet sometimes I believe it only proper to remember that there are real people out there – not all of them by any means are in the career they would have chosen for themselves. Thanks for the comment.

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