Bleeding in a Strip Club Booth
by James Iredell

    When she asks me for my name,
    I don't think to ask for hers.
    Right now what matters
    is how she moves her ass
    across the stage,
    or how she might move it
    across my lap.

    Then she asks me
    what I do for a living,
    "I sell suits," I say,
    and her face lights up
    with a half-interested smile.
    I ask her if she wants to keep dancing;
    she shakes her head.
    "You could be a model."
    And I see the bitch of it all--
    the red in her face,
    the lack of confidence
    behind her eyes,
    mine reflected in hers.

    She tells me her name is Cindy.
    "Not Venus or Passion?"
    "No, just Cindy."
    I shake her hand
    and let the dance begin.

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