NO WORRIES

NEHA JADHAV

He drowned his mother’s voice In his five ounces of a Grenadine martini, Fizz spilling over the thick shell of his cell phone As she shrieked at him to just go sell himself.

He had asked if she would be among His future customers then, And nudged the cocktail glass aside To make way for his high-heeled legs, Struggling onto a flashing stage Before she could give him an answer.

Face smacked With powder, he rolled the click Of a stranger’s lighter, smoke fogging all but Sharp-tongued eyeliner Teeth-like mascara And blue shadow blended into Earl Gray goose feathers. And with One arm curled up a metal dance pole, He rocked his hips to the tuneless rhythm.

She had said she would give him money She didn’t even have. “Go live in the red-light districts. You know what those are now, don’t you?” The contents of his own purse wept With crumpled bills, bills and numbers. Dusty red sequins Popped off the hems of Mother’s stolen skirt As he straddled laps he had once missed, and he kissed. And kissed.