OXFORD TAVERN: TOTAL EXPOSURE

It was a large pub, ugly and taciturn;
it was in a boring and gloomy suburb
like any suburban pub,
until the metallic music
(from the century just finished) exploded,
and in the blink of a spotlight,
she emerged as if in a miracle:
low-cut neck, fishnets, high heels
and a white hat like the wings of an archangel.
And the billiard players, the poker players
and the drinkers shoved closer to the bar
to scream and shout in unknown dialects,
to applaud and murmur and wolf-whistle
while she prowled ,through the air and over the floor
(Leonardo's birdwoman, a Bengal tiger
gyrating in a mother's womb)
and blew them kisses and stuck out her tongue.
With each contortion, the catharsis grows.
The blue-green spotlights dimmed
just before she became a pagan virgin nude.
But never during the ritual movements
was there a single depraved look,
because in everyone's desire there was Plato's cave:
too perfect for such simple people:
after all, nothing more than a girl of their dreams.
Outside, in silence, the art of the moon hung.