the ex-stripper

in the bathroom of the dirty bar,
she hits up a line,
that white dust, like angel wings ground up,

sniffing she walks to the bar skinny,
her usual red wine glass,
so plum and rich, waiting patiently,
her confidante, her lover,

god the music is fast,
the wine is sharp and biting, fast,
the drumming bass beats,
her heart beats hard, fast,

somehow she’s up in front now,
tossing hips and long hair,
feeling her tits, thighs,
swirling down and up, a kick,
wearing platform stiletto heels,

the bearded men drink their Budweiser cans,
the leather jackets talk of riding,
their attention turns to her, a long minute,
then,
back to Harleys, football,
silent tackles on the five TV screens,
a Monday night tradition,
they’ve seen her all before,

she tastes the wine on her lips, speaking fast, to no one,
“i’m twenty, and
undiscovered, washed under,
drowned”
she whispers more, feet tapping,
hips swaying,

they always let her down in the morning,
such a fall,
always that big empty hallow hole,
skinny arms and legs tangled alone,
the halo tossed careless by the bed,
next to the padded bra, red thong,
wings in tatters on the bathroom floor,
broken wine glass spilling red,

next night the white line ready,
waiting patiently,