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,