Strippers
Strippers
A strip joint along Interstate 19
in Clearwater, Florida. A cinderblock
building painted black. A sign on the roof
flashing STRIPPERS in red letters.
It didn’t have a name.
More like a bunker or a garage
than a bar. The inside so dark
you could barely see the strippers
or the patrons. That wasn’t an accident.
No one in that place looked good.
I’d buy meth from the doorman
and snort it in the washroom stall.
Then sit by the stage to nurse a drink
and chew my tongue and lips
until they bled. The strippers
were young women with bony hips
and sallow faces, bikinis sagging
off their bodies like the ubiquitous
American flags drooping
from the sides of homes
I’d walk past on my way to
and from the bar. The girls
worked for tips and drinks.
They’d lean in close, talk dirty
or hook up with you in your car
for the right price.
I went every evening after work
and stayed until they closed.
I only spoke to order drinks or buy drugs.
The dancers ignored me
except for a girl named Keisha.
She’d sit down a few times
a night to hand me a napkin.
Honey clean yourself up,
your mouth is bleeding.
I’d wipe my lips and toss
the napkin to the floor.
Keisha would stand up,
shake her head and say
What girl is ever gonna
kiss a mouth like that?