the dancer

as she comes
on stage
all legs
and hair,
and grabs
the glimmering
pole like
a cat in heat,
and the music
starts,
and the blue
light
shadows her
enough to hide
whatever
imperfections
may be there,
she slowly
unzips, unbuttons
a blouse a skirt
and lets
it all drop
to floor,
and the lights
go round
and round, and
the music gets
louder and the
men inch up
further into their
seats, elbows on
the table
wiping away
the beer on their
lips, their mouths
open, ready to
devour her
before the next
one does
the same. it isn't
money, or adoration,
or love that
keeps her dancing,
keeps them coming
to see more. it's
more pure than that,
more true.