Working From Home

She leisurely rose at 11am.

No custom is ever around before then.

Strong coffee and chats

with mates on the phone.

A couple of fags, some toast

and a line.

An hour or two more

and she'll feel just fine.

First job of the day,

get the ironing out.

Some slap on the face,

the right bra and pants.

Back from the window

she finds the right place.

Just after two, the telephone rings.

A time waster asking

the wrong sort of things.

An hour goes by

and a car slowly passes.

She irons again

the same pair of panties.

The car passes once more.

It parks and the bell rings.

Strong bargaining follows,

the product won't fit.

The client requires a thing

that he can't have.

Some late price adjustment

might clinch the deal.

No, she just cannot meet

the specialist need.

Four-o-clock turns.

Her regular weekly.

Bang on time,

a predictable job.

A routine half hour,

tediously easy.

Reliably bringing

a needed few quid.

At last the phone ringing.

A chance to earn something

“Yes I 'm free.

Just come on round.”

Another quick line

for a bit of a boost.

The doorbell rings.

Time to earn a crust.

This guy, never seen before,

sent by a friend.

Wants a lot

for what he pays.

She can't afford

to turn him down.

Must do her best

to please him.

Another quick line

to sharpen up.

It's time when things get busy.

A packet of crisps

for the gnaw in her guts.

Can't risk going out

to the shop.

Back at the iron,

the light set right,

a trickle of clients

comes by.

By one in the morning,

all movement is done.

She draws deep on a late cigarette.

Her boyfriend arrives

with much needed coke

and takes her,

so rough,

by the throat.

She hands him the cash,

which isn't enough,

and he's gone again

into the night.

The curtains are closed,

she drops on the couch.

Stinging from

the slap on her face

that he gave as he left

through the door.

An order was barked

to earn some more.

Stop wasting time on herself.

End of a home working day.