Her white body draped
around the shaft
of silver dulled
from nights of work,
her feet encased in pointed
come-fuck-me shoes,
she creates her own
brand of illusion.

Pebbled nipples perked
in the smoky air-conditioned
haze, the smooth whiteness
of her buttocks
a whirling blur,
she entrances her audience –
semi-somnambulates lost
in the language of her limbs.

Rolling to the beat
of blues or bass,
her surging hips hypnotize,
and she smiles
a coy smile as the drooling gent
beside me waves her over, strokes
her thigh, and tucks a dollar into her
black lacy garter.

Her eyebrows arch
over glittering mascara
as her piercing eyes catch
and challenge my unconscious
shiver at the thought of such
public intimacy. And you, Poet,
she asks, wrapped around your pen
and page, are you less naked than I?