By Jayne Pupek
The zombie watches the pole dancer
beneath the hazy yellow light
and has a sense of deja vu,
remembers the undertaker working in
a small room like this, fluorescent
tubes flickering in the ceiling
while his veins drained into
the stainless steel sink.
No one had cheered or whistled when
the undertaker removed his soiled
Depends, not the way the crowd does now
as the dancer gyrates, lowering
her g-string to the floor,
tossing it into the audience where
a bald man thinks he can
catch sex like a fly ball.
The man relishes the smell, as if the flimsy
garment reveals what she tastes like.
The zombie wants to tell him how
a woman's labia has little flavor
the complexities of her kidneys and heart,
and how her brain,
bathed in its own salt,
is more succulent than oysters
served with lemon wedges
on a bed of shaved ice.
But someone has bought him
a lap dance,
and he is distracted by breasts
glossed with Crisco and glitter,
so close to his face
he cannot decide
which nipple to gnaw first.