i know you

i'm gonna buy you a spider, he says
a necklace like the one you're wearing, something nice
and i nod obediently, paste on the smile i keep folded in the pocket of my apron
for occasions such as these, because here
i am merely a piece of public service
and stomping big boots in the direction of his knowing grin
will not label me the hero that it would in the circles i tend to inhabit
so i simply smile, paid less than ever
to be reluctantly on display for men, and i do not want to know this
but his name is david.
and he comes in twice a day for breakfast and lunch
then disregards the menu to tell me my face is what brought him in here
comments every time on my piercings and tattoos, says
you've done yourself up pretty there.
it's an honor to be served by someone as pretty as you
and i have no choice but to thank him and walk away
more naked than any stage i've ever adorned
more vulnerable than topless and swaying to music i can't stand
dollar bills in my g-string about to hit the floor
and i say thank you because i can't say
i know you.
with your neatly trimmed mustache and pressed shirts
pants just a little too tight, the bulge of your gut betraying your delusions
of still thirty-something, i know you.
you have peered at my body in the strobelight
held up dollar bills for a closer examination
you are the one who always tells me i'm pretty i remind you of your sister
won't i please come a little closer? there's no reason to be shy.
and he laughs at my blush behind the counter
fully clothed a second ago now stripped bare by nothing more
than the unoriginal power of his imagination
this food was delicious, he says. and i'll see you again tomorrow.

the hideaway was a small time bar in a big time town
undercover wealth disguised as dirty truckers with stacks of twenty dollar bill incentives
and mike was the man who sat at the bar
and never glanced at the stage.
half the time, no one was watching, so i danced like i was alone
practicing curls and dips so intricate i couldn't have stopped
to grasp a dollar bill between sweating breasts even if one had been offered
and so mike waited until i left the stage and danced my way to the bar for a drink
to present me with the 99 cent stuffed spider.
i don't know your name, he said. and even if i did
it wouldn't be your real one.
but i love the way your tattoo dances in the blacklight
and flexes when you raise your arms, and so i got you this.
and i thanked him with genuine emotion
he grinned back, said
now come sit on my lap, girl. show daddy how happy he made you.

and girls like me, i think we bring out the worst in men
push the boundaries of their nice guy principles
until an ordinary man in an ordinary store winks,
somewhere between a balding ponytail and cinched tight slacks
because he had decided that he knows me.
knows by the way my fingers twist when i think no one's looking
the way i work like a dance, constantly off balance and i like it that way
never setting both feet on the ground at once and he knows
that underneath my loose t-shirt there are no straight lines
and that if he ever made eye contact, he would not see his own reflection.
and girls like me, we must bring out the worst in guys like him
because now he's gonna buy me a spider
some trinket to show that he noticed me
and i will feel obliged to be so grateful that i just might sit on his lap
and call it consensual because of my chosen profession
because of the tank top i chose to wear this morning
and both of our dreams tonight will still blame my smile
for bringing the worst out
in men.