Nuit Blanche

Sarah Ng

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.

We are chasers of the light, hitting the end of the line and limping 

all the way back. We shortcut through the park and find 

a tent with a box, with a sign that tells us to sit in the box. 

So we do. I lay the remnants of our pad thai fries on the trodden

ground and crunch up my knees to my chin. Dead fingers 

caress the cardboard and you—smiling into me—touch 

your toes to my toes. 

We are all just sleep-deprived time travellers looking 

for meaning in cardboard boxes and splintered chopsticks. 

We brush by. We assault the pinpricks in the tips of our ears, 

the cusps of our noses, the horizons of our cheeks. 

We confront the beautiful in the humdrum, in that toe to toe,

boxed-in freedom.