She wipes the speck of blood off her thigh,
The trail, invisible.
Clotted, it is blue now.
As dark as the twilight outside the curtained window.
"Alf-past seven now", she muses.
The frail cot creaks as she gets up, cracking her knuckles.
Ladles the little water she stored,
and drinks it all up.
The caked kohl at the corner of her eyes,
hides the lost twinkle they held.
She thinks not about this when she lies back on the cot,
She does not care, this is her God, her Work.
'I shall be on my way now", says the grimy man.
She smiles. He smiles.
Gently closing the door behind him,
he squares his shoulders and walks on.
He could almost hear them, maybe just a whisper.
But he knew what they said,
each time, every time.
"Yonder lives the whore".