The one drag show in town is closing

and tonight the snow is a performance,

the way it changes light and sound.

Lit windows like fish eyes open

to the alien sky.

Our hostess sashays across the floor,

leans over our chairs and hooks

our purse straps with one finger.

This is the cheap bitches’ table over here!

she hoots to the crowd. We laugh

at ourselves. This shit looks like

you got it at the airport! Praise be

her silicon cheekbones, perfect

scoops of cream. Praise be

her russet wig and feral cat

eyes, her dress made out

of straws. We dance. We dance.

Champagne bleeds from plastic

flutes, pools around the table.

From here we can forget

our circumference of soy and corn,

blind as we are to the smoke-

stacks at the edge of town,

their smog sometimes white,

sometimes gray, sometimes gold.

This is midwinter in mid-country:

luxuriating in banality,

the iron trees, clouds the color

of gasoline, austere fields leaking

pleasure. How I long to be undressed

by unshaking hands.

I look into your eyes,

and I am denied. My voice

is like grass seeds caught

in the wind. But I am a good dog.

Halved pills, stress rash, stolen

television: I don’t cry. I don’t cry,

though the coyote crouches

on my chest and howls. This club

is bankrupt. No one here pays

for sequins flashing at the throat,

and this is the midwestern way:

a man who has everything

believes he is bad, sits at home

alone and feels good about it.

The rest of us will dance

tonight with our eyes closed.

The rest of us are in pain