The Prostitute At Kotahena and an Orange Barley Bottle


She knew a thing or two
About hospitality, Sri Lankan style.
She gave me a glass of Orange Barley, 
From the fridge that lay across the room,
And told me that anything was possible,
Like the loneliest hour that gets,
Crowded by cold palms and colder lips.
How the cold grip of a prostitute,
Breaks you right in the middle, like the Titanic and an iceberg,
Hull broken at the very center. Iron sheets sinking faster
Than a thrown iron anchor,
The wreck, a body becomes, plummeting
Down the cold waters, realizing
The moment had passed.

How just like any household in Sri Lanka,
The woman in front of me, too kept to tradition,
To a practice of Sri Lankan hospitality,
Gifting me a cold drink, and we danced in so many styles,
Until there were no more customs to follow,
Only how offsetting it was, holding a woman that you hardly knew,
In a cuddle. I guess some prostitutes have hearts of gold,
And without realizing it, my body
Had proven that the oldest profession of them all,
Was only a surrogate to the youngest feeling.
How in that transaction, the bodies resonated, and we paced ourselves,
To the last drop of passion, and shared one mouthful
Of Orange Barley, what was remaining in the bottle,
Savoring the orange essence.

I parted, reminded of that empty bottle,
Which like my body was now emptied of gas.
A Venus who shared with me an Orange Barley,
The cold surf that cascades to crumble your defenses,
And open you up. How we always open
An Elephant House drink, to break the ice. How we
Familiarized to the only thing, we had in common,
And bared of reasoning, an Orange Barley bottle
Became our harbinger for the night,
And one hour later, a farewell sip,
For the open road.

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