the dancers

the dancers,
with glazed eyes,
like cats in
heat on the stage,
their limbs wrapped
around poles
in the hazy
dark, in a place
that smells like
beer and bad
decisions. they
are shadows
moving gamely
to the pulsing
thump of music,
with tight nylons
draped with
wrinkled bills,
high on their
heels. no one
watches for long,
expect for those
up front with
elbows on the table,
their beards
touching the
hardwood floor.
planted for an
even closer
look at what
they can't have.
and it all falls
apart momentarily
when the front
door swings open
with the starched
white light
of midafternoon
and everyone looks
in that direction
for no reason.