It’s not just him that’s on the phone. He’s deaf,
this customer. You should have known. He types
to you, TTY, translated request
by some young jocular guy. Sounds like snipes
what he relays—the pay, full nude, where you
will meet the boat Sunday. A birthday gift
you said you’d never be—and naked, too;
ignoring boundaries. Just topless shifts
inside the bar. No outside dances, nude,
with caviar. Your boss insisted for
her friend, executive, distinguished, lewd
“a gentleman—just one hour, nothing more.”
But this witness, because it’s TTY,
knows how expensive you are to buy.
