by Kristin Garth
Card reader, in lieu of winding key,
turns her on, velvet box the public won’t
see, except as a stage, sensuality
on demand. Her tear-away tutu floats
free as she lifts her hand, gesture prescribed
by currency. Even her smiling is
procured, illusory, contrived, bribed
by a swipe of a card. Men will notice
if the nipples aren’t hard as she spins
in the nude on one pointed toe. Other leg
conditioned to extend, when they spend,
towards her ear, proffer a show they beg
to be near — things they would do, fingers and cocks
to sluts not shut away each night in a box.
