The prostitutes flow, county to county,
pushed by tides of indignation,
slowed by pools of indifference,
unseen, unnoticed, unknown by most,
but they are there,
at the bars near the track,
on the corners near the cheap motels,
in the parking lot behind the diner.
They flow, county to county,
in a jurisdictional eddy,
Anne Arundel, Howard, Prince George’s,
pushed by the police from one to the other,
one to the other, one to the other,
in a slow, continual cycle.
Do we care to know who they are?
Or what they want in life?
They flow in a different channel,
caught like so much debris behind a strainer,
eddied, swirling, stopped,
watching as the Patuxent flows freely to the Bay.