Woman in red sequins and smeared face paint
stood with a cardboard sign -
“Dignity for sale – Will work for love”.
Callused hands gripped the cardboard,
holding it high above her in proud display
of the complete desperation that had
encompassed her every day.
Green eyes outlined in charcoal would
watch the passing men in three piece
suits, driving their Mini Vans
and phallic sport cars.
Watch, she did, those women
with perfectly manicured nails and
augmented assests, presidents of this or that
company that broke the glass ceiling and
soccer moms on their way to pick up
the kids from Aunt Jane’s apartment
on the brink of Easy Street and
Sitting Pretty Lane.

Those on the road of success would
glare out the window of their shimmering
vehicles, silently speaking “Lady in Red,
go back to your side of the city where
that sign has more meaning.”
When the window was cracked, Sequin Sue
would vaguely hear the questions from the
children in the backseat.
“What’s wrong with her Momma?”
“That’s what happens to bad boys and girls,
darling. She’s a lesson to be learned”.
No faltering – Sequin Sue in radiant red
would hold that sign tighter and bring
it higher over her blonde tresses streaked
with bits of gray that reflected the light
of all her mistakes.

Each gray hair represented one flaw in her
existence, a tale that had no true beginning and,
knowing that, would have no complete ending.
Day after day as soon as the sun arose over the
city, Sequin Sue would straggle out in her
clownish way and hold that sign for all to see.
Day after day Sequin Sue would go home
with her dignity in tact to wash off the smeared
make-up just so she could get up the next
morning and go to that same corner.
Lost hope and without care, corner of.
Hold that sign high and wear those sequins
with pride while receiving those glares.

One day in the middle of winter, Sequin Sue
did not show up at the corner wearing her red
sequins or that smeared make-up.
The next day, just as cold, Sequin Sue was
absent from the corner she had occupied for
years holding that sign with aching arms.
Not a single soul in their sparkling cars
dared to notice the absent fixture of the history
of that street, going on with their lives as if
Sequin Sue never was and never would be.
In the paper on the third day – her obituary:
“Sue Martin dead at the age of sixty-three –
Willing to sell her dignity for love.
Dedicated her life to the education on
human kindness. Worked as a teacher
for fifty years and was a highly respected
member of her community. Survived by her
three children – carrying out her dream”.

On the next page –
“On the corner of lost hope and without care
a homeless shelter opens to great success,
instilling hope back into the community.”
Even in death Sequin Sue holds her
sign high in the air.