The man in the white
sequin jacket shoulders
his way down Q Street
to 17th where jutting

red lights tint night
on blacktop, folding,
splayed across the feet
of the ladies strutting.

Screwtop wine's pylons
trip the turn as throats
strain to cheer & scream
as favorites drift by,

spitting "come on,
baby," then float
away, down the dream,
slipping us some thigh.

Behind me, an Italian
man breaks up
with his boyfriend over
the phone.

Around us a battalion
of truculent drunks
with fabulous drovers
ride some rolling crones.

An old sad cuss
continually thumbs
some poorly angled
shots of legs

Racing for the bus,
we quilt our memory from
spare light spangles,
wild dregs.