A Dream of Owls

It’s got cheap steak, so we steer
The ancient smelly Ford
Six and a quarter miles East
Through pea-sized hail
And slow when we spot it
Not hard to find, GIRLS
GIRLS GIRLS
In flickering orange neon.

Center-stage, spot-lit, writhing,
Sinuous as a cat with faint
C-section scarring, glimpse
Of a miniscule flag tattoo,
Left inner wrist—Polish. Czech?

I can’t look her in the eye. I am red,
Flustered, digesting rubbery meat;
Embarrassed to be transfixed, (though
I’d like to be, she moves like night)
And you lean over and spill hot wet
Reassurance in my ear: “You can watch.
That’s why she’s up there.”

Her breasts lift up and out, point
Like owl eyes when she raises her arms.
She aims a pout at us, winks
Upside-down clacks slick heels together--
Long brown thighs, too tan for Spring
Wrapped like ribbons round a may-pole.

A sudden swish, hands-free
Look-at-me-Ma
And she swoops floor-ward, spinning.
Bottle-blonde curls caress
The grimy pole-base. Her shoes glitter.
The crowd whoops
Sipping tepid beer.

Late in bed I breathe your sleep
Smell, flannel-gray and quiet
And dream of owls
Staring, spreading deep wings
Golden in the half-light
To spiral down on unsuspecting mice.