John Cantey Knight: poem

IS SHE A QUEEN?

The Quarter runs down to Rampart Street
Lying in gutters with everyday trash
are smashed plastic curios and broken
leftover beads of Carnival. Sweet incense,
odors of drying residue, and stale urine
cloy the air of old doorways. In paper bags,
misfit possessions of bums pillow
the sobering dreams of waking. The street
stretches in the early morning, workday traffic
as a serious Negro hoses last night's
accumulation of filth from a corner bar.
Like a Great Dane walked by a grinning boy,
a hooker, six feet tall plus, in easy
strides parades wares under a miniskirt
and a frizzled blonde wig. Pint-sized, a pimp
watches his piece of territory
warily as she strokes long thighs and eyes
the slowing cars. Her proportions are
grand: she sticks a pink tingue out lewdly.
Staring, I marvel at majesty. Is she a queen?
A block down, i pass a new police station.