On more than one lonely night, I have taken refuge here, alone
in an oval bar with an oval stage behind it, an oval stage upon which the
dancer mounts, an inner sanctum, pasties strategically place at two points on
her breast, and a triangle of cloth covering almost n nothing below, she shaved
to the point where I need no imagination to see what this tries to hide.
I come here, sip my beer, give the perfunctory wave tip I am
expected to give, perfectly aware of how accessible the dancer can be for the
right price, only this is not the person I want, or need or care about, and
when I look up at the face I imagine seeing the face of the person I do want or
need or care about, only to be disappointed when in a flash I realize it is not,
wishing it was merely a matter of price, when it is much, much more complicated
than that, and ultimately, I can’t afford the toll it would take to be with the
one I want, need, and care about, even if she would have me, and wonder if it
would do any good to take refuge in this woman’s arms, when she could never be
the one I need.
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