The Dancer

characterizing a female stripper, why she does what she does

Nothing Moves the Dancer

somewhere deep inside the music 

 dancing alone in a half- empty Tuesday room 

the dancer eyes, some weary -looking customers

still hanging around, bulging, with empty pockets    

though dawn is coming fast around the bend

 only muscle memory keeps her moving       

 rhythm no longer possessing, limbs and skin

 her mind drifting away from the dance floor

  chanting softly, words to inspire

 calling herself 'the ultimate 'piece worker'

The unreachable visual fantasy'

the envy of angels--the universes' envy' 

  steps ahead of judgment,

with no sins to confess, no choices to lament

a stranger to self -pity, no moral dilemma

nothing ever moves the dancer

thinking of home, her one room apartment

 and eating French toast,

 playing with her Siamese cat

has to water the plants again;

getting dry from neglect on the window sill,

squints from the sunlight,

it always comes inside too bright, and she'll

open up the novel, she just started reading

thoughts anticipating, 

 racing a hundred miles an hour

 nothing ever moves the dancer.