Pole Dancer

I improvise your dreams
As if they’re yours
But that’s only how it seems

In the balance of expression
You are the substance of my impression
I am the printer’s block
To your paper made of reed

So who shows what to whom?
A dancer in the light
Or an audience that is trapped within its self-reflective gloom

My buxom exhibition
Of untold inhibition
Is movement given voice
A voice you wished you had

Heel and toe, calf and loin
The well rehears-ed elements of style
Creation echoed in your groin

You see

This notion of exposure
Is a fiction of composure
For I am made of flesh

…And you of need