Grotto

“What’s your name?” he asked,

breath like the smell 

from the open pub door, 

beer, cigarettes, cat’s-piss sweat.

Cold hand on my thigh,

pulling me onto his lap,

creeping up my skirt,

bruising my leg.

He grasped me tighter,

pressing me against the bulge

in his stained red trousers.

“So what do you want for Christmas?”