THE PAPERWEIGHT 

This half-globe of skyline and grass-skirted figures
Dancing in place always conjures her own bump and grind,
The job she's held longest in San Francisco.
The paperweight's glass firmament recalls the glass
That shields dancers from men in the booths. "Acting
Means sacrifice," she reminds herself, selecting a cherry

tube of lipstick from her purse. Cherry
Best captures the lurid lighting of the club. Figures
She may as well play the game. No sense acting
All high and mighty. The job's enough of a grind
As is. Most nights she needs at least one glass
Of vodka to get her through. True, San Francisco

Once seemed idyllic to her, but San Francisco
Is no town for actors. The timing's cherry
For leaving, especially with that stupid glass
Ceiling at the club. She was never good with figures
But she knows a scam. In school she was a grind
Only when it came to theater, the acting

Bug biting her hard, holding on. She never cared that acting
Promised to be hell whatever the city: San Francisco,
New York, LA. Even if you make it, they grind
Up talent like nothing, pop your show-biz cherry
With a leer. A million girls with perfect figures
Wind up watching their dreams shatter like glass.

Lately she's noticed that the peepshow glass
Seems to protect her outside the club, too, acting
Like an invisible skin against any suspicious figures
She meets. Very useful. She'll miss San Francisco
With its hills and fog, its sunflowers and cherry
Blossoms, all those Italian cafes that grind

Fresh coffee-hope each morning. But how long can she grind
Out this existence? She downs a third glass
of vodka, detonating her head like a cherry
bomb. The other dancers say she's been acting
distant lately. She says she has to get out of San Francisco.
September will be her last month, she figures.

"Pretty please, God, with a cherry on top, tell me acting
Is in my future!" She looks at the tiny glass San Francisco.
Grinds her teeth. Watches the wiggling, captive figures.

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