By Dave Hood
Most Friday night’s, he’ll cash a paycheck,
travel by cab to “For Your Eye’s Only,”
a strip joint in an upscale part of town,
where he’ll pay a ten-dollar cover,
sit at a table for two, sip draft beer,
peer at female dancers, one after another,
on display, as if models in Penthouse,
wearing skimpy lingerie or mini bikinis,
dancing, grinding, gyrating, disrobing
to a series of songs, with an erotic beat.
He thinks, they’re Works of art.
One of a kind. Sensual pleasures.
Sometimes, he’ll clap and smile,
after a pretty figure leaves the stage,
desire some attention, pay
for her private dance,
chat as if she’s his girlfriend,
Become intoxicated with lust,
hope she’ll fancy him,
take a cab ride home.
At closing time, he always leaves
with unfulfilled desires, an empty wallet.
Then rides an all night bus back
to an empty bachelor apartment,
where he falls asleep, dreaming
of beautifully naked women who smile.