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My Third Song Is On (a Poem)

Jewish Strippers on Heroin is based on true events but of the names have been changed. 

Unfolding curled slightly damp, American Dollar Bills.
These are for me.

A plastic red heart shaped basket is passed around by Azita who chimes,
“I’ll do your basket!” when David Bowie’s song Heroes kicks in from the jukebox,

in a room with no DJ but a phenomenally stocked jukebox that you punched in your own songs.

In a room with no windows she weaves her way around the tables asking the men,
“Would you like
to tip the dancer onstage?”

They reach for their wallet – coat pocket – inside of jacket – side jean pocket to get a few one, five, sometimes ten dollar bills.
Her brown ringlets bob up and down after thanking them leaning in close in their laps close, so
It’s only later on I learn that:
Azita offers to do the girl’s baskets because the new customers will get

a Closer look

At her

All the while my high kicks to Bowie are ignored.
I trundle back into the change-room, black g-string in hand. My glass of ice in the other.
She puts the red, plastic, heart-shaped basket on the counter where I scoop up the bills- tip her some.
I do this quickly so nobody will watch how much I made. So Devon can’t ask me for money for smokes.All the bills are shoved into my purple furry monster ristlet.
Later on I will count them, peel them back, fold them.

My luck, my pride and joy.

 

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