Half a Beer Here, One or Three Dances There

Half a beer here 

A dance or two

There.

I remember when

The strip clubs

Were packed

With femininitie’s

Finest but that

Was long ago

Now even the

Average charge

Too much for

Some bump n

Love and that’s

If you can find

A place where

You can touch

What you can’t

Taste. That’s why

I find my way to

The black clubs.

While the ice

Princesses

Put you off

More or less,

The Nubian

Princess will

Take my chalk

White hands

And press them

To their round

Brown buns and

Tell me to squeeze

And smack hard

Besides, they

Don’t look like

The girls who

Broke my heart

Ten thousand

Times, but

After all, it’s

About that

cracka Cash

Even though

Mine don’t

Come with

Much cheese

So I know not

To linger too

Long there

Either….half

A beer here

One of three

Dances there

Then it’s try

And make it

To the car so

I can head on

Home to feed

The rescue cats.

And that’s pretty

Much that.

— F.B.

 

The Bottom Feeders

The stripper who

looks like a Bratz doll

is already working

on a cracka’ when

I get to the bar,

so I’m glad to be

packing pen and

writing pad when I

sit down at the

short side of the bar

and start trying to write

but the free cheap

bank pen only gives

ink in fits and starts

before blowing up

like the laughter

of bankers. So I’m

glad when the bar

girl gives me hers.

It’s good to look busy

when the bottom-

feeder dancers start

sizing up my loneliness,

because the bottom one

slides over and asks if

I’d like some company. So

I squeeze out a slight

smile and mutter “no thanks

but it’s nice of you to say

hello.” Then I feel bad

and sad to see her slink

away, because her and I

are really together in

the same circle in

Darwin’s Inferno.

But even so, pity and

empathy don’t override

natural selection, so I

keep writing what no one

wants to read while the

Brat doll keeps laughing and

flashing those long black

lashes of hers at the lonely

old cracka’ she’s still working

on.