Poem #18: How Do I Explain Strip Clubs to My Daughter?

Challenging to avoid, even with creative
circumlocutions, no matter which route you take
through downtown, but sometimes, we pass
The Glimpse. I might feign interest in a homeless
woman with too many layers, point her out
on the car’s other side. She has to look somewhere,
my daughter, who reads everything, even the KY
box while waiting for antibiotics at the pharmacy.
She stares down the neon as if cracking a code,
furrowed brow, Encyclopedia Brown, a question
resting on her lips—the shadow dancers with exaggerated
chests and hips. “All Nude!” Her own nakedness
and her brother’s a commonplace around our home.
Even mine and her father’s just a part of the day.
I worry about the landscape of this childhood,
wonder if there are more fire hydrants than trees,
more cars than fields, more rent-to-own stores
than creeks. Would the policeman understand why
I speed past these places? Just on my way out of town,
Officer. With her, in the backseat, demanding:
“But where are we going?” and me wearily answering,
“Shhh! Not now! I’ll tell you later…once I know.”