For K

Here you are,
a nine-year-old
sex worker
in the walmart parking lot.

Here you are,
in a sequined red shirt —
flimsy, translucent,
bare-ly hiding
the chest
you aren’t old
enough
to grow.

Here you are,
nine years old.

You
are
nine
years
old.

Once,
in that sheltered place,
bumbling
through
heart
and soul
on ivory keys,
you said:
“you can do anything
if you try.”

Now
here you are,
a nine-year-old
sex worker
in the walmart parking lot.

Did we try?
Did we do anything?
Did we bumble
through heart
and soul?

And do we,
now?

Here you are.