Ten of us converged on Robyn's house tonight to celebrate March 3, the International Sex Worker Rights Day, with her. She is the best host, had filled the house with food, but she is not eating enough herself (worry, worry). Together we formed a poem. You know the kind where you write a poem on a page, rolling up each line so it turns out groovy, stream of consciousness. Robyn read the poem as the sun set, kids ran around the room, chased by dogs and our friends banged pans together in the kitchen, cooking away.