Bellocq photographed me yesterday.
Nothing is left out, not even the smell.
I go naked to pick up the Raleigh Rye.
He has a staccato voice like an angry squirrel,
a big waterhead, and is only five feet tall.
I look at the flashbulb like it wants me.
I draw a butterfly on the wall and think
there's a myth about what unfolds from the pupa:
Southern Jezebel, Painted Lady, Sara Orangetip.
Those could be any girl in Storyville.
Tonight our street is a wet, velvet shade,
the girls smoke cigars, and I have no money.
My form rises from the bath in the reddish light.