Miss Emanuelle, Mrs. Smith

In the seething sunlight
you sow your tawdry seeds
in tight-fitting dresses
or flimsy halter tops
to the froward mind shout
you tilt your neck
strut like a free-range rooster
six inch spikes elevate the rut
black stockings filter the afterglow
slathered lips all aglow
chirp their teasing notes
glazed eyelids flap about
ensnaring each flirting eye
well-oiled hips slither to and fro
advertising the booty below
the office your playpen
a varnished brothel where
you leave your calling card

As the twilight cerebrally sprawls
you pack up your brandished wares
and return home to the dollar ward
back to your stunted perch
morphing into a sterile prude
don a plain, loose-fitting cotton dress
cleavage, boobs recess
expunge the fake eye brows
blue irises recede
rub off the lip stick and gloss
glittering half moon now dark hole
exchange heels for flimsy flip flops
glitzy bangles traded for carbine trinkets
now a shadow of the earlier femme fatale
slinks down on the half-worn sofa
and in a placid, soft tone
rehashes the boring events
at the dated, corporate club