Men
We’re buying pornography in Iowa on Sunday,
paying good money to watch something live
in the eyes and the face of the woman bent toward us,
slow-motion in strobe light, mouthing dollars
from our mouths and foreheads and fist.
Not one of us asks what her real name is.
We’re getting ill in the men’s room, washing
on hand towels to go and watch more. We’re watching
her mimic what she won’t do with us, seeing
what exactly the law lets her show: positions
on the pole shining like sudden rainfall
for her to rise on and hang from, high heels and all.
We’ve all driven distances.
We’re all drinking substances.
We’re all us men clothed.
It’s winter in America, sheet ice over Iowa.
She wears tape on her nipples, tattoo on one hip:
woman’s name. Some of us think it’s her own.
