She's forty,
Upper management,
Gets what she wants,
Knows the rates,
You're dirty
Enough,
She'll pay,
But demands
Her money's
Worth.
She buys
You a drink,
The terms
Unspoken,
But understood
As she leaves
Her hotel
Door number
On the bar
Beside you-
Expecting
You
To
Follow
Later.

The doorman
Looks right
Through you,
Like he always
Does,
He'll get his
Cut,
That's the
Way it is.
A mirror in
The elevator,
Shows you what
She saw:
Lank curls,
Scuffed up
Leather jacket,
Stubble,
Blue eyes
Trapped
Behind
Two circles
Of glass,
Wrapped in
Thin gold
Wire.

You once
Sneered
At taxi dancers,
Gigolos
And worse,
Now you've
Joined them,
But where else
Can a boy
Like you,
Make this kind
Of bread?
Her door opens.
There are drinks,
Mere formality;
No past,
No future,
Only now,
As she unwraps
You like
A fine cigar,
Mistaking
Gaunt
For
Muscle.

She thinks
You're with
Her now,
But your
Heart's a
Million
Years away;
Remembering
Left-behind
Enemies,
Friends,
And Lovers.
Their faces
Echo within
Your mind,
As you,
A one trick pony,
Lead her
Through
The steps.

The dance
Now over,
She sleeps
Alone,
You dress
Yourself
In the mirror,
Thin,
Fresh tattoos,
Curls lank
Above your
Eyes,
Trapped behind
Two small
Circles of
Glass,
Wrapped
In thin
Gold wire.
(At least
It wasn't
A man,
Like last
Night.)

Self-Judas fee
In your
Back pocket,
You pass
The doorman
Who
Looks right
Through
You
As you
Walk into the
Darkness,
Where
In a doorway,
Back
To the wind,
A candle lit,
A spoon's dull
Glint,
Elastic band
Stretched tight,
As in your
Own taxi dance
You sink,
To dance
With those
You left
Behind,
Long ago,
And far
Away.