Early that day we had discussed Old Farts.
My ‘til-death-do-us-partner maintains he isn’t one, 
he says, I get a new idea once in a while.

That sounds to me like the basis for research.

Titillating messages, We Dare to Bare
catch my attention.  A few miles further
We Bare All,  Adult Toys,  Café Risqué,
Women Welcome, Great Food

It’s time for lunch, why not investigate.
Exiting down the ramp a billboard screamed---
Which of the Thou Shalt Nots don’t you understand?
signed God.
Shaky but resolute, I drive into the parking lot.

Guys: $8.00 cover charge, ladies: free. Inside
it’s dark with bright lights focused on the runway.
The miniscule tables face the dare to bare girls
who gyrate around poles suggesting---

A robed beauty pushes a handsome wheel-chaired
young man past us, to the darkened hall.
We order iced tea, Don, a hamburger, 
I ask for a Chicago hot dog.
(Our son-in-law convulses over this).

Garnering dollars in their garters, the girls flirt
with guys at the counter, no touching allowed
except to place bills high up the thigh on the
little elastic band, the only clothing permitted.

What are we doing here? enters my brain.
The novelty is beginning to fade,
we eat our food, pay our bill, and giggle
our way back into the wholesome sunlight outside.