The Velvet Lady, 1995


Topless bars, I’ve always loved them since they

first showed up on the urban scene. If I

could get over the blank looks on the dancers’

faces, if I could get over how many of

the working strippers that I’ve known relied

on heroin or speed to keep going,

I might spend half my life in this dim place.

How would you like to take off your clothes

in front of strangers, how would you care for

all those cruel cutting remarks the drunken

men shout up, if it was you dancing by

a pole? I’ve seen guys bring their girlfriends on

dates, as if they’re out to convert them to

lesbians.  I never spend a pile of

money. The mafia fuckers who run

these joints got men to park the car for you.

I park for free down the street. They charge you

when you go in, they charge you heavy for

the drinks. I like to watch the cash move in

the place, how it’s put in a dancer’s G-string,

or set on a tray. Always there’s a guy going

up and down these steps on the side to the

locked office high above the main floor where

there’s windows to watch what’s going on down

below, plus protection from a hold-up.

Gals come up to you and ask if they can

sit at your table; for more they cuddle

on your lap. My former stepson works here.

Jay spins the tunes. Jay calls the gals on his

shift his “stable.” If they don’t share some of

the tips they get, he’ll put crappy tracks on

that makes then fumble their strip-dance steps.

On the PA Jay makes constant tired

jokes about married men that cannot get

love at home. Jay sounds as bored as he is.

He’s married though his wife left. I did get

talking to one waitress. I’d stop often.

One time she pulled to the side her spandex

shirt and flashed a breast. I don’t know why I

liked it. In the genes? I’ve seen plenty of

breasts, but her daring made me feel good, shall

I say freer? A salaried man craves a

taste of freedom. She will put her hand on

your shoulder for a moment when she brings

a drink, or when you’re talking.  I know it’s

a trick to up her tips. The magic in

her cynical touch touches me. I used

to be a magician before I went

to work in an insurance office. She

hopes to create an act so I share

with her a few illusions she might use.

I want to think she cares for me. She is

raising a child by herself. I could be

of help, but I know it’s all an act. These

men at the club are so crazy lonely,

they’ll blow a week of pay on some babe that

sits on their lap nearly naked. Zombie

eyes should tell them she’s sealed her heart away.

They’re so pathetic, I’m pathetic too.

The dream of sex is a dream of freedom,

Around this place the dream seems to enslave.

Visiting Mom In San Angelo, Texas

Steam has swollen shut her motel door. 

I stand outside in the cold pushing. The door breaks free in a Velcro sound. 

My mother’s got four pots of water steaming on her little stove. I’m feeling heroic, the princely son rescuing his mother from the dungeon damp motel. 

She’s eating on her bed a can of sardines using a plastic spoon. I’ve driven through many cold miles of semi-desert for her birthday. 

She used to like to read Victorian novels, so I’ve brought a Charles Dickens in large print, wrapped in what I see now is Christmas paper covered with green trees. 

“Opps!” I say,” at least the paper’s festive”.

“I only watch sports on TV,” she says. Mother claims to love to live alone. I’m starting to think it’s true. Twenty-five years she hasn’t tried again to kill herself. 

I think mom’s pleased I’ve come, asking me to bring her Saltine crackers from a top shelf. 

“See if you can fix that running toilette.”