Bottle Service

Who says drinks aren't free?
Tears and sweat drip glowing green,
stop the tan eyelash model: she chokes
on her own spit, an executive in white pumps
and a pencil skirt, a single mother of a 6-year-old
at the aunt's house watching Arthur.
"You look fabulous" -- a face stretched tight, a VIP arriving.
Two weekends ago, before the bottle service white carpet onyx table,
her hair was curly. Now it is whip straight.

Who says groping can't be fabulous?
Grizzle and silk, hands on taffy sweat
steering this ship starboard. Drinks flow foamy,
white chocolate russians and virgins depreciate
on bar stools too tall, mushroom caps raised in sky.
She puts a hand on your chest, maybe could-be purposefully
touching your second-to-the-top button, and
whispers somewhere words. You do not want to hear.
Instead, you grab her hand, slipcase her fingers,
and walk her through the red revolving door.