Nightclub Fever

It will be over, soon,

the carousal of fantasia.

Black boots on the edge

of a brick box are trampled,
tilted to one side from
when teenagers threw their

condom wrappers
at the red dots streaking

into bulls-eye patterns,

thinking it was a mistake

when really bottles of lipstick

and crayons had been melted

to point these bricks out.

He looks out the window,

thinks one more dress,

maybe one more set of heels,

gold bracelets...

and then maybe his hair

will grow back

and not on his back--

but if the clientele don't mind

he knows he'll do anything

for the chance to work again.

Brick-box round

with dulled edges

where he once kept his

lingerie after a police raid.

That was 1987

and things were different then:

different men traced

the outskirts of his yard

before inconspicuous knocks,

yes, yes, come in

and then reveling

in the crumpled twenties

he tastes, again, their

smooth, shaven legs.

But now, he isn't enough.

A drink at the bar won't suffice.

The men stop coming

because the police are

at his door

angry, angry--

they want their money back.

And he holes up

in a corner with the blinds shut

as they turn over the house,

turn him over in bed

just to see what's

still left inside him.

They go and on their way out

they kick the brick box and laugh.

The corner is so neat,

tighty and calm.

He clutches the hem

of his scarlet nightgown,

smells the scent of the harlots

and the beer,

closes one eye, then the other.

The runway is clear,

clear fantasia,

and that is all he knows.

One step at a time,

try not to trip,

and don't forget to take

the money upfront.