The lagacy continues

Dusk creeps up with slow precision, cloaking all in red. The women of the night take flight to lure men to their beds. The cobbled paths of London’s slums are slick with evening rain. The sun is setting quickly now to a songbird’s last refrain. A harlot in her tawdry guise sashayed down the street. She must impress great London’s men so as to earn her keep. And sure enough she makes a catch; she lures him to her room. She’s carried ‘cross the threshold of what’s soon to be her tomb. She introduced herself as Polly, to which he turns his back. “In that case, my dearest Polly, you may call me Jack.” *A follow-up poem for "The Ripper's Legacy", one of my older poems.*