Anniversary party at People’s Park

Drummers on stage, 
circles of people whirling,
rags and feathers.
We’re a tribe, we’re on the cover
of National Geographic 
where native women
carry baskets on their heads,
bare breasts swaying.
We don’t have any baskets, 
we’ve got some basket cases
and a few girls shrug their shirts off
while freckles pour down from the sky.
A bottle of red wine goes around a circle of reddening faces, 
brighter than blood.
Broken teeth grin. 
Beer cans blossom.
Enough spills for our thirsty ghosts.
Lovers’ hands get big and blurry.
We’re a tribe, 
we move in mystic circles,
like the drunk said when the cop
told him to walk a straight line.
Damp grass licks our feet 
like a puppy’s tongue.
Half the people here 
can’t do anything but magic
and magic dissolves in the rain.
It rained yesterday, 
it will rain tomorrow
but today we’re having a party
in the hole of a hostile donut.
The thing about the park is
you can’t just go there
unless the park comes out to meet you.
Today it has.
We’re a tribe.
In spite of a sound system from hell
we’re using the music to 
climb ourselves
like dancing up a rusty fire escape
to steal the fire.