I am a whore, and I know I am
because I was given that label
by an angry man after I shared 
his time and sipped at a seven
dollar coffee while we discussed
the weather and why the coastal
residents of British Columbia
should probably think about
packing up and moving inland.
I am a whore, and I know I am
because I was given that label
by an angry man after I shared
his time and gulped at a sixteen
dollar shot while we laughed
under black lights and shared
a mutual appreciation for anyone
who would break their nerve
and get up and bend their rusty
knees during forgotten old songs.
I am a whore, and I know I am
because I was given that label
by angry men over angry years
that have swaggered their way
onto my Mom’s Little Helper calendar
and stick close to…