Breakfast Stripshow

The Oxford Tavern hides from the morning like a boy
masturbating under the covers.
Old men sit hunched,
alone, against reproachful fingers
of carceral sunlight that penetrate
this refuge of weary ill repute.
Heads bowed in humble reverence,
furtive eyes devour topless barmaids
from under weighted eyebrows, like starved dogs
that slink for scraps from tables not their own.

Jobless workers slide
into the half dark seeking manhood
like junkies in pursuit of universal truth.
They pose as kings and call the waitress ‘princess’
as she serves them drinks outside the shelter of her bar.
One man blows smoke which, like a ghost
of his desire, cups her breasts and curls
in gentle turbulence around her neck.
He sucks the dregs of power from their connection,
like the last drag on the marrow of his fag.
But his eyes betray the fantasy of his position;
a guilty flash
to the watchful bouncer by the door.

I watch these men and sip my beer and fight,
my impulse to return the barmaid’s nippled gaze.
And when she comes to clear my glass I
don’t know where to look. But for a moment
I catch her eye, the eye
that’s seen more of men than men have of her -
the broken and the breaking
and those who would deny it’s just a matter of time.