Sara struts to the stage, 
checks that her pasties 
still stick in place 
The guy with the pimples, 
second table out, 
looks as nervous as her 
behind her revlon red smirk, 
but she's gotta make money-- 
the kid screams all day. 
She has a nice ass, 
legs like a willow, 
uses her fan to hide 
what's she's lacking up top. 

His friends push Mr. Pimples 
up front with a fiver, 
expect her to take it, 
shuffle laughing back 
to their seats. 
His eyes are the eyes 
of a boy she once loved 
before these long nights at the bar. 

She kneels down to kiss him, 
lost in her dream, turns abruptly 
when the dj spins the next tune.

Pris Campbell

Published Wild Goose Poetry Review 
summer 2012

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