Nuit Blanche
Editor Underground
Bombarded by wave upon wave of aimless art seekers,
we squeeze between the high-heeled, lipsticked cattle.
Bundled and undone, we bump, we scrape – tripping
along streetcar rails. “Welcome—” it says, “Welcome
to the rowdy-rivered ruckus.” Dragging me behind you,
I walk in skip steps, deer dodging the drunken boys
hoisted upon shoulders, play-fighting in the open
air. We brush by with eyes wandering, tracing parodied
patterns of crisscrossed feet.
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