You haven't called in four days.
Two women cross the pavement, their shoes
flashing in the Labor-Day-Saturday sun.
Silver-heeled and clear-plastic: incongruous
with the smooth coiffures, the linen dresses,
the well-mannered men who accompany them
in well-pressed summer button-down shirts.
Those shoes are for strippers, like the ones
who graced the stage at Bare Assets,
where I'd sat in my naughahyde jacket
all those years ago, doling out dollar bills,
the daddy dyke among
all the sad-faced men.
Visual stimulation: men crave it.
The black lace, the cutaway, the peekaboo,
the ruffles, the sheer, the ribbons,
the thrill of the legs tensed in the fuck-me heels,
bright red or clear plastic,
hips and buttocks thrust off-balance,
breasts wobbling, all the silly trappings that surround
the miraculous flower of a woman.
Remember the ill-fitting bra I wore for you,
the matching panties,
how your eyes devoured me
but the surface only,
hands reaching out to arrange my hair,
I left them behind when I left you.
Months later, flushed and hopeful,
you followed me up the stairs
and peeled the white cotton back from my breasts
as slow as a miracle.