Issue
#2

March
2009 

a poem by Erin Reardon

If I Were a Chatham Street Hooker

Linda LaDouche
Would be the hooker name I'd choose
Just because douche always makes me laugh
And were I a hooker, I'd probably have a stinky snatch
So it would be kind of ironic too

I'd wear sweatpants
Like the other ladies of Chatham street
Many nights and days spent in the Hotel Edison until
they tore it down
And rebuilt it
Trying to convey an image
Like a bunch of crackwhores don’t live there
I'd wear tee shirts that say tacky shit like
"You Can’t Afford Me" or "Baby Girl"
5 dolla, you holla
8 dolla, suckysucky
50 dolla throw

I'd keep my spare sweatpants that say "Cum Dumpster"
in faded gold glitter
across the ass
In a plastic grocery bag along with my cigarettes and
industrial-sized box of
condoms
I wouldn't try to fool anybody
I'd wear my tramp stamp like a medallion
Like it was my armor or cape
I'm off to save the world with a damaged vagina!
Zooooooooooooooooooooooom

I'd have a few teeth knocked out
Just so I could fit in with the other Chatham Street girls
All the better to give the blow jobs with
I'm sure those mouths get tired
Having to slurp away for the welfare babies' peanut butter
I'd find a way to grow hair out of every mole on my face
Shoot up heroin in Union Street alleys
Pass out in some seedy apartment above the discotheque
(Yes they really have one, across from the laundromat)

I'd listen to Journey on my cassette player walkman
Step lively in my cornflower blue sweater
From one john's car to the next
And on slow nights drink at Cronin's
Maybe catch a knifing at Smuggies
Do a few lines off the bar…

But I could never be a crackwhore
And my name's not Linda LaDouche

I'm far too clever
And far too pretty
And besides

You can't afford me
(three snaps in a zee formation)

© Erin Reardon

 return to top        printer-friendly