Money

Women want to save you or want you to savage them.
Men want to see what is under your towel.
The dollar bills they throw into your cage
are all you need to care about because
you aren’t dancing in a cage to entertain them.

You dance in a cage to make money. I open
my towel to the right then whip it back toward midline
just as I open to the left: I show them nothing.
But I have them convinced I will show them something.
There is a difference between men and women—

you must look women in the eyes and, if possible,
look hurt; with men, you must avoid looking
at them altogether, you must focus on moving your hips,
which is close to what they are actually watching.
Suspended in a cage above the far end

of the dance floor, I was not attainable; I
made myself seem attainable. These are just the basics.
Wearing nothing but a towel, my greyish wings
extended to full wingspan, my chest shaved—
the clubbers believe I am wearing a costume.

It is amazing what people believe. The music
is cheaper than a Budweiser. The air is smoke and
the smell of smoke mixed with sweat, and your job
is to convince each of them you are dancing for no one else.
When my shift is over and I pull on some jeans,

tuck my wings and bandage them down, pull on two shirts,
I can almost pretend I never entered that cage in the first place.
Outside on Lansdowne Street, there are people standing
in one line or another waiting to get in to clubs.
Night after night, the same thing: the waiting never ends.