Flesh is but part of what we desire,
wandering among fellow husbands and lonely hearts
in search of less hostile company
to duplicate the girlfriend simulacrum
purchased for forty minutes, like time on a parking meter.
I know the fact that I find
so little offense in how we’ve spent the past hour
is enough for some to feel seriously offended:
admiring innocuously variable parts of female anatomy,
the genuine athleticism that enables
a brilliant landing from atop greased pole
wearing seven-inch stiletto platform soles.
After all these times why is there still
such secrecy? Omerta!
my friend keeps telling me
, like we’re planning to rob a bank
or kidnap one of the girls.
You can almost taste the fecund smells in this place
as I sip at my twenty dollar beer
and notice my buddy has disappeared
behind a black curtain in the back,
while into his empty chair slides this buttery soft blond,
a pastel Renoir nude, fifteen pounds overweight,
her right hand’s red nail extensions
digging into my thigh, she whispers deep into my ear,
Don’t get too comfortable, dear