The Club

I notice you--no,
not you, especially--
but the fat wad of crisp new twenties
that you thrust absently
into the front pocket of your already-bulging
khaki cargo shorts.

I watch you turn guiltily
from the ATM, making your self-conscious
sojourn towards a clandestine corner,
changing chairs
until your view is unobstructed.

It's Thursday--payday, right?

My second song ends--heavy metal
crap, the DJ's idea of audio foreplay--
and I scoop up the crumpled
two-dollar bills--only four, Christ--
scattered randomly across the sleek stage
like castoff Kleenex.

I strut straight to your bottle-littered
table, six-inch Lucite heels clattering
against the mock marble.
I lean in close, give you a face full of silicone
and cheap perfume,
my apathy apparent to all
but you.

A proposition, a whispered promise;
I lead you by your clammy hand,
feeling the hard metal on your finger,
to a place shadowy, secluded.
An eternity later, you leave,
your load doubly lightened.

Does she know?
Know that your kids don't eat
so that mine can?