Private Dancer

The door's locked. Put it on, she dares,
flings her denim-lycra dress
at his feet. He sucks his teeth no. She caresses
his earlobe. Please. He huffs . . . straps on buckles. She stares
as he struts from dresser to bed with a bony hip-jut,
arm extended like a thin brushstroke of tree.
He bats his fox lashes to throw shadows over cheek-
bones, puckers his lips, runs his rough
palms over her décolletage, then strips
further. To her cherry-red negligee. He totters in fake heels,
flings an invisible boa up at the ceiling. She
laughs, imagines feathers swan-diving past her eyes as he skips
over now. Done with fantasy, he kneels
beside her. Hard. Naked. On his bony knees.

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