Stage Debt
When you have to pay to work
When a quarter or more
of everything you make
goes to the club
just for holding
your nakedness in its belly
When the club
is dead sometimes
When you don't always
make enough tips
to pay the stage fee
When you ask to pay it later
and they say sure
but that there will also be
a fine If you
can't make your stage fee
again the next shift
the fine and the fee
will be doubled then tripled
and so on.
That's stage debt It doesn't
take long for it
to become unmanageable
Eventually women
with massive stage debt
have no choice but to turn tricks
or at least suck off the boss
Scrolling for Inspiration
In the last photograph on my phone,
tattooed women clamor, linking arms
and laughing in a tangle
of bikinied bodies. It inspires me
to put on lingerie, look in the mirror,
and smile at my sagging belly,
my cootch barely covered
by a triangle of flesh-colored cotton.
With one hand on my hip, I seem
to be saying, "See me." See past
the wrinkles and cellulite. See me.
In the next photo, a flashlight's glow
illuminates scuffed white tile
for no reason, reminding me
of when I was a kid
and not allowed to come home
until sunshine drained from the day
and the streetlights came on,
making islands of light on the asphalt.
On hot days, I drank rusty water
from a hose. I read books by the armful
on the curb, rode my bike
in circles. We made small bonfires
in the street, flames licking our pedals.
Ah, Gen-X. Much older now,
I put on a long, sheer gown
and am surprised to find that my tits
still look good. I wonder—
where is the dividing line,
the cracked threshold between then
and now? Maybe take advice
from a poet and reconstruct an old poem.
You may use ten new words.
