Let's stand on ten-dollar milk crates tonight,
peer over cheap tiaras, pressed in tight
among construction workers arm in arm
with glamour boys in leather.  Glitter warms

the cheeks of all the maskless passers-by.
It's mimicked in the lights that flash awry
and glance on every face and surface, as
you do now, pitching forward, camera clasped,

then back on heels, to frame the netted calves
and ass the dancer in front displays.  Half
the crowd has claimed the balconies above,
some dangling beads and streamers, calling love,

or, like that couple each with wings who turn
away from the parade, play pilgrim, learn
with each soft palm still softer things to kiss.
These beauties, all, in clamor, drag, insist

erratic beats and red stilettos wreak
oh so much more than havoc on these streets.
Just watch those boys, one draped carefully on
the naked shoulder of his friend.  Beyond

their wobbled tender state, intensity
belied by budgie smugglers. Worth thirty
years for this: softly brushing cheek to chin,
despite all eyes, a gesture freely given.

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