the critics are all out tonight, a plaid lump of them
has festered in the corner, reciting headlines and statistics
flinging hyperbole from their intellectual trapeze
drawn by some primal current we have appeared,
children newly sexed, pockets full of poison,
a flirtatious gambit pickling on each tongue
awaiting the chance to be spit out
then ignored
those who relish cigarettes have flocked to the deck
stamp their feet to keep warm, turn shivers
into dance moves, grin sideways, hold out coy fingers
in a vice to bum a drag
here’s a desperate chemistry:
the froth of rank organic brews, kids in the back
sucking neon, its glow ripening the blood,
a fledgling dance floor contending with
a duo of sententious freshmen
who’ve clogged the hallway
with their fierce gesticulation
unfailingly we congregate in worship of ourselves
after the nine to five, grease our hair and thighs, then crawl
toward salvation: scrubby apartments with low lighting,
kitsch on the walls, a faulty toilet handle
and pasta skin stuck fast to all the cookware in the sink
garrisoned ’til dawn, we weave and spin
to the rococo squeal of old vinyl
and though we gain nothing from our exhibition
but a chronic record of youth’s wayward charm
somehow we stay proud, stick to the plan:
bob in and out of wakefulness
and wait up for the sun