Monday's session with the women at the shelter warrants not an essay this week but a sketch, instead.
They'll pay you for a whole hour, she said,
niggers can’t get hard. Hey honey, can I have a ride?
But I was already leaning close to the intercom, announcing who I am and my purpose there.
With the buzz I left her on the street. I asked the women upstairs
Why all the commotion tonight,
Why the extra bodies about.
The nice weather, they said, rolling out their sleeping mats. For the one face I don’t know, whose eyes stay on the floor, I started my speech.
If you believe in the story of Jesus, I said,
You believe God took on a body. Put on skin and bones.
He didn’t have to do that. There's something special about these bodies we’ve been given.
She looked up at me. I led our exercises. This took forty-five minutes, an hour.
Down the steps and out, I passed the woman again,
and drove by a band of men now encircling her, casting lots for her garments.