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.

Copyright © Mark Wasserman, 2002 All Rights Reserved.