Prodigal Daughter

Perturbs you, does it, Daddy dearest,

that I spread my thighs for strangers

to earn my daily bread 

and crème de menthe?

"Why?" you ask. I don't know. 

But my heart gloats to see you squirm.

 

"I gave you everything!" 

you bluster self-importantly. 

Indeed you did. 

Your thoughts, your plans, your dreams. 

Remember that tax-deductible soirée of yours, 

complete with rented flesh? 

You got so drunk you would have taken me 

(I saw it in your eyes), 

but there are some things even I won't do.

If I married into your caviar crowd, 

would that be any different?

Roll over, smile on demand, 

battered, bartered -- for what?

It's killing my mother, you tell me. 

She's too far gone to phone? 

Her bleeding heart's reserved 

for painted ducks and baby seals! 

"Fastest draw in the West with a cheque book," 

you smile indulgently, 

"but I can afford it." 

Affirmation on demand -- that's her cocaine.

Forty short days, you plead. 

Forty days in a mink-lined cell 

to make me fit for your table; 

clinking your stemware, wearing your dresses, 

high on designer drugs prescribed by your shrink-- 

courtesy of high-yield Third World blood and tears.

In the empty morning hours I waver, 

muster a nostalgic tear or two 

before the downers kick in. 

When I awake, I paint my face 

and go to war once more.

I sell diversion 

from the dreary demons of inconsequence. 

You buy and sell the lives of voiceless children. 

Keep your forgiveness. 

You need it more than I do.