My dad spent disco weekends in Bugis,
drunken and roaring at the crazy queens
and the grey-eyed sailors who paid them court;

even took one once to Sheares Hall and watched
her squeal with delight in the mirrorball sea of
hands held firm against her young man's waist,

then horror and laughter on disclosure;
paid thirty bucks to see a tiger show,
though the star went soft at the critical minute,

and danced until morning, waiting for a moneyed friend
in forbidden parlors who'd treat them all
to century egg congee. And he told how free

they were, how one let him touch
her handsewn breast to feel the rock-hard
pyramid waiting in the center.